Voodoo was the A to his Z, a tigress in female form. Flesh and blood moulded into a human being the way it is only once in every ten thousand females. Her long curved flanks rippled with rhythm as she walked with the Count. The ebony, the tawny, the vibrancy were all there in one piece as she undulated and ambulated toward us through that crowd.
When she walked, the forest was full of fire, the trees danced and whipped in the breeze, the bongos ached for the feel of fingers. The moon was embarrassed because she eclipsed the night. Peg Temple was more my speed. The kind of dame I would probably wind up with—but for five minutes on a weird Trinidad night, Voodoo was the only woman alive.
I wasn’t the only one that felt like that. It was a spell. I heard Peg Temple’s hoarse intake of breath right alongside of me, heard her whisper fiercely with awe in her voice: “My God—I could rape her!” I knew how she felt.
But I tried to forget the black magic. I stared down at the superb back of the woman called Voodoo and tried to remember the terrified dame that had spent the last hours in our company. She was still beautiful, still unique. But coming across the clearing toward us, she was no longer terrified. No more a frightened dame afraid of the big, bad Count. It didn’t make sense.
She was now a Queen beside her King. Proud, imperious, defiant. Her eyes had looked right through me. Through us. I felt like a bug in a clean room.
The Count looked happier than a spider with a dozen flies as his arm came down on the end of the long chant. The mob went silent again. Count Calypso dotted their i’s and crossed their t’s. He was the period and the capital of every one of their sentences. Man, he had that colony of capering clowns right under his crooked thumb.
They waited for his words. I waited too. Peg Temple waited. Only thing is I was wondering where Evelyn Hart was. It wasn’t right that she wasn’t on deck for this.
The Count’s death voice, the rattle-of-bones-in-a-grave-yard filled the torchlit night.
“Calypsonians. Faithful followers. Tonight the Bacchanal is in full fly. All Port-of-Spain rings with the chanties of our young men. The new King of Calypso will be chosen. Rejoice—rejoice. We too are part of this historic time. Calypso will go forward this night.”
He paused. A hoarse, terrific shout ran up. For a second, I was reminded of Senator Snowball speaking from the rear of a Chicago train. The Count’s words sounded phonier than a lead quarter.
The roar died down, and Count Calypso’s voice crackled again: “Calypso is reaching across the sea. Now, because of my evil eye and magic, New York knows of my power. Our dolls danced and died. People in high places are confused and frightened. Soon the city will be in a grip of fear, and our religion will become the world’s religion. Hear me, Calypsonians. We are on the march.”
More cheering and stamps of pure pleasure. The Count was loco all right, but he had about five hundred loco camp followers. He had it bad and it wasn’t good. A crazy murderer with mob-magic on the tip of his twisted tongue. I started to wiggle, sweat and worry under the sisal that bound me. Peg Temple shivered again. And not because it was cold. The loose screw in the Count’s head was bothering her too.
On the heels of the dying shouts, the Count’s voice marched ahead.
“Tonight, Voodoo will dance for us. Dance the dance of the Voodoo virgin. Dance as she never has before the eyes of men. Her marriage to the Count Calypso will take place, culminating in the ritual of the wedding night. The virgin deflowered by her husband. Voodoo and the Count Calypso.”
That did it. Babe Ruth had just hit his sixtieth homer, Lindy had just landed at Le Bourget and Marilyn Monroe had just taken all her clothes off in Macy’s window. The joint went wild. Our part of the island shuddered with noise and the low-lying ranges of mountains off to the south shook like maracas. Peg Temple’s eyes found mine in the din. They were filled with tears.
“Ed—” her voice shook. “They’re all sick. Look at them. Look at her. Dope—the bastard’s doped all of them—”
She was right. I should have sensed it myself. Now I could smell the fever and the high excitement in the air. Voodoo, black magic, hell—the Count was just a smart operator. But watching him make love to Voodoo was not my idea of a tea party.
But I was way ahead of myself. The topper was coming.
The Count had turned to crook an arm up toward Peg Temple and me. His eyes gleamed like two fireballs in the half-darkness of the flickering torches. The area had hushed again.
“Tonight Voodoo dances for the white lover. The dance of time. The Black, with the White Corruption trying to set in to contaminate, to spoil. The White will die when the dance will end. Then will Voodoo come to the Count Calypso to mate and join her salvation, her return to our souls and hearts. The White temptation will die on the horns of the bull, with his own White woman to watch. The White woman will be contaminated by our men. An eye for an eye. When I signal for the drums, the dance will begin.”
That did it. One little speech and it tore the roof off. Peg Temple closed her eyes and screamed but the shouts drowned her out. Feet pounded, hands clapped and leather slapped leather. But this was no Western. This was the one thing I had never run into before. And there wasn’t anything I was going to be able to do about it.
The Count’s paper house died down to a whisper. One lone drum vibrated somewhere and suddenly the Count flung his arms wide, leveled his crooked face up toward the deceptively lovely sky and his funereal voice chanted:
Voodoo, Voodoo, woman of fire
Dance to the man who is filled with desire
Dance him, dance him, dance him dead
Save yourself for the Count instead.
The chanty ended. The hush continued. The Count clapped his hands.
“Let the dance begin!” His thin voice suddenly volumed over the heads of the mob as it never had before.
Peg Temple whimpered and the drums began to throb and pound and beat. Voodoo turned and gazed up at me, every line in her body as immovable as Venus de Milo. Her eyes lighted up like the torches all around us. Her hand came up to her breast—with a machete in it. A foot-long blade caught the light of the moon and the torches and the madness. And the drums gained in tempo, rose in crescendo.
Thucka-thucka-thud. Thucka-thucka thud.
My cable had slipped all the way and fright had closed in on my blood stream like it was there to stay.
And Voodoo began her dance.
The dance of the Voodoo virgin, with death for a finale.
NINETEEN
It was as fascinating as watching your own execution. The drum beat picked up and throbbed like a thing alive. The arena of people watching and looking on with breaths held and silent worship in every line of their gaily costumed bodies was something out of the old records. The crowds and the mobs in the Roman amphitheatre had shouted and yelled themselves hoarse for blood, but not this mob. They were rapt in silent fascination as the naked woman known as Voodoo began to dance toward the platform. Dance toward me and Peg Temple, lashed to our poles naked and helpless in the spotlight of the jungle night.
I watched too. I couldn’t help myself. Voodoo was the age-old poetry in motion, the fluid that never stays settled, the traveling perfection that is a great and beautiful river. Like the Ninth Wonder of the World, she danced before my eyes.
Thucka-thucka thud. Thucka-thucka thud. The drums talked to her. They talked to everyone else too. Watch they said. Watch and learn just what your creator wanted you to do with your body.
Count Calypso hung on the perimeter behind Voodoo, his bent, ugly body poised and expectant like a spider about to scuttle and attack its prey. I stiffened against my sisal bonds and waited. Even Peg Temple had quieted down now. And that was it. When Voodoo danced, clocks stopped, small boys forgot their homework and grown men drooled and ached with desire.
She began slowly.
Her vibrant nakedness uncoiled, her long slender arms revolving about her shoulders in the creation of a human pinwheel. She swirled around in
a series of majestic, proud circles. The lights from the torches all around her glistened off the polished ebony of her lithe torso and cougar legs. Her body slithered and pulsed with life. The long machete in her right hand glinted and caught the flickering glare of the fire. The pinwheel rotated rapidly, revolving as fast as the tire on a swift Caddy. Faster, faster. The machete blade gleamed and dazzled the eyes, a propeller whirling in the flight of an airplane. And the drums kept on thudding.
Voodoo slowed down. Her hands came down to her side. Her head came up, flung back. Her eyes stared up at me on the platform. The fiery balls of her eyes blazed. Her lush mouth parted, set in an expression of utter sex. The tongue in her mouth licked out. Caressed and licked, then disappeared again. Her magnificent shoulders arched and dropped. Her breasts rolled and shuddered. She extended one naked leg, her knee bending out at waist level. She took a step forward, coming down on that foot and the leg behind it rocked on its heel. Her hips revolved slowly. And suddenly all of her rolled and turned and shifted and heaved. She fell forward on her knees and the drums fell down too. The tempo halted. She uncoiled along the ground and slithered a few yards, her black body raping the earth, embracing each tuft of ground. She rose again and the drums rose with her. And the mob let out a sigh. A universal sigh. They couldn’t help it. This wasn’t a performer. This was a creature spawned out of nature right before their eyes. I could feel my own heart trying to climb right out of my chest. The ache of my flesh against the cruel bite of the sisal closing me in was forgotten. I’d even forgotten what the dance was all about. Forgotten what Voodoo’s dancing interest in me meant.
She flung herself against the rim of the platform, her fingers digging into a crossbeam. Her eyes followed me as she turned over and over and barrel-rolled all around the square of the platform, her eyes never leaving my face. You just had to watch and gape. Her curved body came back to the place she had started from and suddenly she stood a little higher than she had before. I knew what that meant. She was poised on the tiny platform leading to the floor of our stage. I shivered now, in the heat of the night and the burn of the million torches. The lights behind her glowed as she mounted the stairs and one naked foot came into view and anchored itself ever so lightly in view. The machete in her hand lay across her breasts, held like a feather in her graceful fingers. The faces and the lights behind her and all around us, shimmered and weaved and bobbed. It was like a mad dream. My senses reeled.
The drums never let up.
Voodoo began to stalk me. Her body was on the platform now, circling, poised, expectant—the Voodoo virgin flaunting herself before the White corruption that wanted her. And the woman of the White corruption was staring on with horrified eyes. I could see Peg Temple would never forget this night if she lived to be a hundred—if she ever lived to be a hundred.
Thucka-thucka thud. Thucka-thucka thud. The air held no other sound.
Voodoo. The night held no other sight.
The machete pointed toward me. Voodoo leaned in with it. And drew back. She stabbed and retreated. Lunged forward and withdrew. Always turning and spinning. Her beautiful black body glistened with perspiration now, almost as if she had soaked herself in oil. Her bare feet made tiny patting sounds as they came down on the rough wood of the platform.
I started to get desperate. I took my eyes off her and strained at my bonds. I had suddenly remembered what the dance really meant—that at its conclusion I, Edward Noon, was going to be sliced up in little pieces by the beautiful dame with the machete. Then they were going to pin me on the horns of a bull. I didn’t see the bull, but I was inclined to think the Count kept his promises. His record was pretty good so far.
And Evelyn Hart. Where the hell was Evelyn Hart? Had the Count already taken care of her for double-crossing him? I had every reason to believe that the redhead had slipped us the clothes and the rope. We didn’t have any other friends in Trinidad that I could think of.
Voodoo closed in on me. She was two feet from me now and the unforgettable nakedness of her filled my eyes. And Peg Temple began to babble now. She had gotten hold of herself, too.
“Voodoo, honey,” she let out a torrent of words. “This is Peggy. Your friend. Honey, you can’t do this. You’re under some kind of spell. Voodoo—look at me. I’m Peggy. That’s Mr. Noon—your friend. We want to help you. Voodoo, we’re friends. Peggy and Mr. Noon. Peggy, Peggy, Peggy—” It was a fierce, urgent plea that only Voodoo and myself could have heard. But it was no use. Peg Temple trailed off helplessly. Her eyes strained to find mine. They were brimming over with tears.
“Nice try, Peg,” I said, the drums throbbing above my voice. “But she’s doped to the ears. She’ll never understand you. Look at her eyes.”
Voodoo danced between us with a slippery, slithery motion, passed our poles and came around in a whirl and danced through again. The mob out front shivered with expectation, a low, universal moan welling up from dry throats. Peg Temple stared at Voodoo with fascinated horror. It was plain now. This close, it was as plain as Durante’s nose what had happened to our dancing friend.
Voodoo’s brilliant eyes were dope-laden. The rest of her was animated and vibrant with pulsing drum-beat. But her eyes saw nothing, really. They were blank and almost uncomprehending. Like she was dancing from memory.
Thucka-thucka thud. Thucka-thucka thud.
And then the drums stopped. Thud. One big thud.
And Voodoo stopped.
In the arena behind her, Count Calypso raised one scrawny arm and poked a hole in the atmosphere over his head. A very large hole. His clawed fingers made a mystic pass and came down to his side. The hushed mob of his hired hands waited. I could almost hear the breaths being held. The gay color of the costumes, the torches, the mood of the scene was something out of Edgar Allen Poe.
Voodoo’s body went rigid. Her shoulders locked and her arms flung out in crucifixion. Her head came down from the heavens and her eyes joined mine. Only three feet separated us now. And the blade of the machete was a foot long.
I watched the blade come up in her hands. Watched her tighten her lovely fingers about the haft of the handle. Watched her arm raise past her shoulders. The blade gleamed like an imprisoned star high above her head. She stepped forward. Still dancing, still moving like no other human being I have ever seen before.
She drew up to me. Her rigid body undid itself in slow-motion, like the lovely snake she was.
Crazy thoughts whiz through your head at times like that. The man about to die sees things with startling clarity or finds his brain a jumble of mass impressions. Or he stops thinking altogether. Or he thinks of the silliest things.
With a machete staring down my throat, I thought this was the Calypso Room. And Voodoo, the featured dancer, was just finishing her turn. And when it ended, the house lights were going to come up and the customers would tear the walls down with applause.
That’s the only thing I could think of as Voodoo’s hand suddenly chopped down at me like chain lightning from the heavens. Peg Temple screamed, and all I could do was twist my head out of the way apart from the pole—even knowing that the machete wasn’t aimed at my head. That it was targeted in right on my chest. My heart seemed to jump out to meet the sharp point that was coming its way.
And above the roar of the crowd and the sudden thunder of the drums again, a shot rang out, clear and loud, like the Liberty Bell on a winter morning. One shot, good and clean, fired by an expert. Fired by a friend.
The machete blade jutting from Voodoo’s lovely hand flew from her fingers as if somebody had tied a string around it and pulled hard. The blade soared up into the air like a fast-rising sparrow. Voodoo woke up. Somebody had just thrown a pail of ice water in her face.
And Evelyn Hart’s tall, erect figure leaped to the platform and came into view like another dancer. She was still in the breeches and the dangling string of golf balls. But the accessory to her costume was all that really counted.
It was Count Calypso’s Magnum .3
57.
TWENTY
Things popped. Cracked and popped. It was like a scene from a Marx Brothers movie. Everybody moving, everybody doing something.
Count Calypso’s death voice rose above everything at first. “Kill! kill them! Murder the White corruption!”
A surging roar from the mob drowned out the rest of it. And the torches all moved, and the people with them, toward our platform.
Evelyn Hart moved too. Somewhere an organizer had been lost in that girl. But she’d misplaced the organizer for only a few days. The organizer came back with a rush. The drum beat had died and Voodoo had staggered off to one side, her face buried in her hands when the redhead got rolling.
She didn’t even look at me. Just whipped a penknife out of her breeches, came around behind my pole and started cutting. Cutting like a maniac. Cutting and firing. She snapped off three shots at the crowd, shooting high while she cut. The thunder of the .357 was a cannon going off in my ears, but the most welcome sound in the world. The crowd threatening to envelope the tiny platform with a sea of bodies suddenly parted in terror and bewilderment, and scattered. That made me feel good. The Count had them all hopped up, all right. But his magic and fantasy didn’t extend to their walking right into gunfire for him. That was great. Human beings you can deal with; crazed fanatics are another matter.
I could hear him screaming and bellowing as my bonds fell away. I stepped out of them. My lungs sang, my body unfolded, and now my nakedness was a triumph. I felt like Tarzan. There was no time for talk. I grabbed the .357 from Evelyn Hart and she let me take it and bent to the task of freeing Peg Temple.
The Voodoo Murders Page 11