No Mask for Murder

by Andrew Garve

  Martin put his head inside. Three patients were lying on their beds, apparently sleeping. There was an almost complete absence of furniture or private effects, and a total lack of comfort.

  “Is there no privacy at all, anywhere?” he asked.

  “None,” said Carnegie. “We just haven’t the space. It is desirable, I know, to have many sub-divisions of the patients, but we cannot even separate the young boys from the old men. It would be pleasant to have separate huts and a little normal home life, but that is quite impossible here.”

  “Are there no married quarters?”

  Carnegie shook his head. “It’s all in the plan. There’s to be a great deal of new building.”

  “I can’t think where,” said Martin. “There’s no space.”

  “They’re going to use dynamite—blow up the rock and carve out new sites.”

  “They’d do far better to blow up the island,” said Martin savagely.

  “That,” said Carnegie, “was your predecessor’s view. That was why he made enemies.” He led the way to the lower terrace, past a group of patients playing cards. He jerked his head towards them. “That is their chief pastime here—cards. Gambling. They play all day and every day. Almost their sole occupation.”

  “There must be some amenities for five hundred patients, surely? Some provision for communal activities?”

  “Virtually none. There’s been talk of a cinema, but there’s no place to house it. We had a radio, but it broke down and there was difficulty about repairing it. There’s no occupational therapy at all, because we haven’t the staff. There’s no level ground, so it’s impossible to play games. There’s no soil, so it’s impossible to have gardens, which is a great pity because all our food has to be brought from the mainland at great expense. There’s no education. There is, of course, fornication.”

  “So I should imagine,” said Martin dryly. He gazed reflectively along the congested coastal strip. “At least there’s the sea. I suppose the patients do some fishing?”

  “Oh, no,” said Carnegie. “There was trouble about that. They’re not allowed to take boats out in case they abscond.”

  “Don’t they abscond anyway?”

  The old man gave his sour smile. “Of course they do. There is always some way of organising it. A small bribe—a very small bribe. We have two visiting days a week, and it can easily be arranged through relatives. Last year we had twenty absconders.”

  “Then what on earth’s the point of stopping the fishing?”

  “It was a political decision. Someone started a scare in the Legislative Council. If fishing were allowed, he said, the mainland would soon be overrun by escaping lepers. It was one of the planks in his election platform.”

  Martin’s face hardened. He could see lots of trouble ahead. “What’s this place?” he asked, peering into an almost windowless room built of loosely mortared rock.

  Three or four sluttish-looking Negresses were tending a battery of black ovens along one wall. The place was thick with soot and stank abominably. From the open door came an eddy of scorching heat.

  “That is one of the communal kitchens,” said Carnegie.

  “It’s incredible.”

  “We are to have a wonderful new kitchen under the scheme, with electric stoves, stainless steel sinks, refrigerators and all the latest equipment.” They strolled on a little way. “Here is the laundry.”

  Again Martin found himself gazing into a dark and dirty room. Women were standing at scrubbing boards and ancient coppers, their arms and faces glistening with sweat in the foul heat. “The place is forty years old,” said Carnegie. “A nightmare. Nothing is ever washed clean. I need hardly go into details. Again, it’s the old trouble—shortage of water. And no proper equipment. Now I’ll show you the hospital.”

  Martin suddenly felt sorry for the grey old doctor whose job was surgery. “I’m not surprised you want to get away,” he said.

  “It would be different,” said Carnegie wistfully, “if there were anything I could do. But where can I start? I’m single-handed, and it’s much too big a job for me. There are too many patients—far too many. There’s nothing for them to do—they eat their hearts out. There are not nearly enough nurses. There are no facilities for anything. All our stuff has to be brought from the mainland. Often our requests are ignored. There’s no telephone—absolutely hopeless. I don’t know how you’ll ever make anything of it.”

  “I’m not so sure that I shall try,” said Martin.

  Chapter Two

  The leisurely tempo of the Health Department in Fontego City quickened perceptibly as soon as it became known that the Secretary had returned. One of the office boys, who had been hawking sweepstake tickets in the street most of the morning, managed to slip back unobserved. The coloured girl typists, in their cool pinks and greens, stopped discussing the costumes they would wear at Fiesta and applied themselves with conscious diligence to their copying. The senior clerks opened more files and buried themselves in the contents. The Assistant Secretary, Ezekiel MacPhearson Dubois, mentally assembled the matters on which he would have to report and put on his jacket in readiness for the expected summons.

  In the air-conditioned inner office Dr. Adrian Garland stood by the window, deep in thought. He was a striking rather than a handsome man, not particularly tall, but powerfully built, with a wide chest, big shoulders and strong hands. Though he was well over fifty his thick hair was still jet black except for a silver streak which grew in a freakish diagonal across his head. He looked what he was—a virile and energetic man, physically in his prime. His eyes were a brilliant blue, and of an unusual directness. They were eyes that could always command obedience, if not always affection.

  At the moment the Secretary was not in the best of moods. His trip had borne some fruit, but as usual it had been exasperating. It was always the same at the start of a new campaign. Apathy—that was the main trouble. Apathy and obstruction. This rural health drive that he was planning would be expensive; he’d be in hot water again with the Financial Secretary for exceeding his estimates. The Chamber of Commerce would probably accuse him of extravagance. The politicians would criticise him for concentrating all his efforts in one corner of the Colony—as though you could expect to win a battle with dispersed forces. The coloured doctors would bicker and scheme, as they always did. Was it worth it?

  In his earlier years Garland had organised such campaigns with zest. He had been more ambitious in those days—professionally ambitious. He had enjoyed building a reputation as a first-class administrator, a man who got things done. He had enjoyed beating down opposition, particularly the opposition of the powerful. It had been very satisfying to inject a stream of energy and purpose into this lethargic Colony, to make plans like a general, to discipline and dispose his forces, and to get results. Very satisfying, ten years ago. But where had it got him? Where, for that matter, had it got the Colony? Disease was like the “bush”—it came creeping back as soon as the attack had weakened. These black fellows would never hold the line, once control of the Colony had passed to them. An idle, untrustworthy bunch, by and large—smart and slick sometimes, like Dubois, but without any guts. As for his personal position, he’d been marking time for years. Inadequate pay and no prospects. No financial prospects, anyway, not by honest toil. That aspect hadn’t worried him until he’d married Celeste; indeed, he’d hardly thought about it. But it worried Celeste. The Colonial Service made no provision for expensive wives. Perhaps Celeste was right—perhaps he had been throwing himself away on an ungrateful Government. Anyhow, things would soon be different. If only she were less cold! It was odd how he missed her when he was away, considering how little she gave him. His marriage hadn’t come up to his expectations, there was no use pretending it had; and Celeste was to blame. Some people might say she was a bit of a bitch—she probably was. But knowing it didn’t cure him of his infatuation. He was even more in love with her now than when he’d married her a year ago.

  H
e put Celeste out of his mind with an effort and rang for his secretary. “You might ask Dr. Dubois to come in now, Miss Chang.”

  Dubois arrived almost before the door had closed—swift, smiling, ingratiating. He was a coal-black Negro—slim, good-looking and obviously pleased with himself. His hair was carefully parted down the middle, his film-star moustache was meticulously trimmed, and his white teeth gleamed. His university tie was resplendent against a background of immaculate linen.

  “Welcome back, Dr. Garland. I trust you had a very satisfactory trip.”

  “So-so,” said Garland, regarding his deputy without pleasure and wishing for the hundredth time that he could get him switched to some other department. Everything about Dubois irritated him—the assiduously cultivated B.B.C. accent, the polite insolence, the perpetual hint of an arrière pensée. Dubois had too many ideas. Being educated in England had given him an odd twist. He could never stop talking about England—“the old country,” he called it—and yet Garland knew that he disliked the British. A dangerous man, with too many friends and relatives among the local politicians, too much backstairs influence. An ambitious man, who’d almost certainly like Garland’s own job. A trouble-maker.

  “One or two rather trying matters have required attention in your absence,” said Dubois, sitting down opposite Garland. “The typhoid outbreak at Preux is getting worse——”

  “Of course it’s getting worse,” growled Garland. “If people will have latrines so near the river bank, what can they expect?”

  “If there were alternative accommodation,” said Dubois, “we could insist that the shacks were demolished. The Housing Committee has been very remiss.”

  “Yes,” said Garland. He thought of adding that the most influential man on the Housing Committee was the owner of the shacks, but it hardly seemed worth while. “Anything else?”

  “There has been an unfortunate incident at the Colonial Hospital. Dr. Crispin, who as you know has just come out from England, swore at a nurse in the operating theatre. It seems a case for disciplinary action.” Dubois’ eyes glistened with malicious satisfaction.

  “Blast!” said Garland. “All right, I suppose you’d better let me see the report.”

  “And Dr. West has arrived.”

  “I know. He rang me this morning. He’ll be along here in a few minutes. I’d like you to meet him after I’ve had a talk with him.”

  “Very good,” said Dubois. “I sent him the memorandum on Tacri. He went out there yesterday.”

  “So he told me. I’m glad he’s keen.”

  “He was sorry you were not in town,” said Dubois.

  Garland glared at his assistant. “I can’t be everywhere at once. I’ve fixed up about the field crew. Mr. Spencer of Beauregard is taking his family to England for a holiday and he’s kindly offered the Department the use of his house for as long as we need it. We ought to be able to clear up the area fairly quickly. I’ll talk to you about it later. All right, Dubois.”

  The Negro retired. Almost at once Miss Chang entered. “Dr. West is here, sir.”

  “Good,” said Garland. He went to the door and greeted Martin with a smile and a handshake. “Come along in,” he said heartily. “Well, it’s good to see a new face. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Martin. “Dubois told me you were away planning some drive.”

  Garland nodded. “It’s a project I’ve been working on for some time—to isolate a small area and attack every disease at once. We may find some new patients for you. Cigarette? Well, tell me, how do you like the place?”

  “Tacri?”

  Garland laughed. “Good God, no, my dear fellow—nobody could like that. I mean Fontego.”

  “It’s picturesque,” said Martin, “but I think I’ll reserve judgment.”

  “It’s a very complex Colony,” said Garland, “and a very difficult one. So you’ve been to Tacri already?”

  “It seemed a useful way of filling in the time. I hope you didn’t mind.”

  “Why should I mind? I like to see a little initiative—Heaven knows we need it. This place is moribund from the feet up. Well, what were your impressions?”

  Martin found his chief’s blue stare a little disconcerting, but he met it frankly. “To be honest,” he said, “if I am to be a prison governor I think I’d sooner go the whole hog and have a place like Devil’s Island.”

  Garland gave him a searching look. This young man wasn’t going to be as simple to handle as old Stockford. He nodded slowly, sympathetically. “I know just how you feel. By the standards you’re used to, Tacri must seem appalling. But that, after all, is why you’ve been appointed. I’m not up in your speciality, but I know you’ve got a big reputation and, according to the reports I’ve seen, you did a fine job building up that model settlement in India. If you can do half as well here, the Colony will be in your debt.”

  Martin said, “I’m a leprologist, not a magician. I couldn’t make Tacri into a decent leper settlement in a million years.”

  “Oh, come,” said Garland. “I don’t expect to hear that sort of defeatist note already. Surely it’s too early to judge. Besides, the place is going to be changed out of all recognition. Haven’t you seen the plans?” The unwavering stare was almost an act of aggression.

  “I’ve glanced at them. I haven’t had an opportunity to study them in detail.”

  “Well,” said Garland, “wouldn’t it perhaps be better to avoid any dramatic judgments until you have? This scheme is no ordinary project. The whole place is to be rebuilt. There’s to be ample accommodation for six hundred patients on the best modern lines. Small detached huts, mainly, with plenty of privacy and a quiet domestic atmosphere. The infirmaries are to be rebuilt. There’s to be a new hospital and operating theatre, properly equipped; new administrative offices, a club, and a cinema; new kitchens and laundry, first-class accommodation for the staff, and a large additional recruitment of personnel, extra launches to carry the traffic—why, the place will be transformed!”

  “But all that will cost the earth,” exclaimed Martin.

  Garland chuckled. “That was rather the view of the Finance Committee, but I managed to persuade them in the end that the job must be done. I told them that Tacri was a plague spot. I trod on a lot of toes, but I’m glad to say I got my way after a hard fight.”

  “I don’t want to appear critical,” said Martin, “when you’ve spent so much effort in getting reforms through, but——” He hesitated, then plunged. “Speaking as a leprologist, I can’t feel that they’re the right reforms. Where are you going to put all these new buildings? Carnegie said something about dynamiting the rock. Was he serious?”

  “Quite serious. How else could we fit them in?”

  “That’s just the point,” said Martin. “Why try to fit them in there? Tacri will never be a suitable spot. In my view it’s pouring money down the drain.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to leave the financial arrangements in the capable hands of the Finance Committee?” suggested Garland dryly.

  “Are they capable? I don’t know. What I’m quite clear about, Dr. Garland, is that Tacri is hopelessly unsuited for the job it’s been given. The whole conception of segregating lepers in a place like that is fifty years out of date. Whatever fine buildings you put up, that island will always be a prison—and a bad prison. There isn’t room to move—there can’t be. Most of the patients, I take it, got their living from the land before they were certified. How can they work the land on Tacri? There isn’t an inch of soil on the island. And there isn’t space to start alternative occupations. You’ll never reconcile active young men and women to cramped idleness. They’re bound to mope, and they’re certain to try to escape.”

  “That’s all true enough,” agreed Garland. “I’m not a leprologist, but I know the case against Tacri. As a matter of fact I’ve written two long reports denouncing the place—if not three. The ideal, of course, would be an agricultural settl
ement here in Fontego, ten miles or so outside the city.”

  “Exactly,” said Martin eagerly. “And in all probability it could be provided for a fraction of what these improvements on Tacri will cost. You’d avoid the sense of isolation, you’d have good land and stock and plenty of water, you’d recruit a better staff, and what’s more, there’d be room to expand. I gather there may be well over five hundred additional leprosy cases still undetected in the Colony. How would you find room for those on Tacri?”

  Garland smiled grimly. “They are, as you observe, still undetected. It’ll take a long time to find them. In any case, that’s beside the point. I admire your keenness, but you can’t be a perfectionist in Fontego. We’ve got to face the facts, and the facts are that at the present stage it would be a political impossibility to move the leprosarium to the mainland. Just a moment—I’ll get Dubois in.” He rang the bell, and the Assistant Secretary was summoned.

  “Oh, Dubois, I’d like you to meet Dr. West.”

  “It’s a very great pleasure,” said Dubois, shaking hands and beaming.

  “Like the rest of us,” Garland said, “Dr. West just hates the sight of Tacri. He doesn’t think the improvements scheme can make the place a suitable leprosarium. He’s all for a settlement on the mainland.”

  “But of course,” said Dubois. “We’re all in favour of that—in the Department. It would be in accordance with the best modern practice. But in Fontego——” He shook his head. “Quite impossible.”

  “Why?” asked Martin.

  “There are powerful feelings against it in the Colony,” said Dubois. “I am unusually conversant with the situation—my brother is a member of the Legislative Council; many members of my family have their ears to the ground. The people of the Colony are quite determined not to have the leprosarium on the mainland. If it were seriously proposed I believe there would be riots. It’s regrettable, but it’s true. Anyone who advocated such a plan would immediately lose his job. As Dr. Stockford did. These are democratic days in Fontego, and the people are beginning to feel their strength. If they don’t like anyone they sweep him away.”