by Hugh B. Cave
The other day he had asked the kitchen fellow, Lazaire, why the menu didn't include more fish. Lazaire had told him that the man from the States, George Benson, was trying to teach the local fishermen to use nets, among other things, so they would catch more. But pelicans dived on the nets when they were being hauled in and . . .
Hold it. What was that?
His light had touched something he wasn't looking for and hadn't expected. Some thirty feet ahead of him a tall, dark figure trudged along the water's edge just as he himself did—and in the same direction, down the shore toward Anse Douce.
"Hey! You, there! Hold on a minute, will you?"
He had spoken in English, he realized. How the hell did you say that in Creole? Because if the fellow were a native fisherman walking the beach with a cast net, as some of them did when trying for small fish in shallow water, he of course wouldn't understand.
The man stopped anyway. Turned. In the flashlight's beam his face was white, and what made the rest of him dark was not his skin but his clothes. The black pants and black shirt were as good as a name tag.
"Mr. Lindo!" Steve hurried forward. Lawton Lindo, the attorney, had brought only dark clothes to the Azagon because, he insisted, a tropic sun would raise the very devil with his extra fair skin. Even in Baltimore the sun was a problem for him, he claimed. In the light of Steve's flash his long, thin face looked like a white mask with large dark holes for eyes.
"Mr. Lindo, what in the world are you doing out here at this hour?"
"Uh? What? Oh, it's you, Dr. Spence." The attorney leaned forward for a closer look, and his words were slurred. Yet according to Tom Driscoll and the staff psychologist, he was a brilliant man; just couldn't accept that a man with his problem must never take that first drink. "I—ah—I couldn't sleep, Doctor. Thought a walk might help me to relax."
"A walk to where?"
"Nowhere in particular."
They were beyond the hotel beach now. Ahead lay Anse Doucé, where Paul Henninger had come ashore after his frightening long-distance swim. Steve put a gentle hand on the lawyer's arm. "You weren't walking in your sleep, were you, Mr. Lindo?"
A look of fear suddenly touched the too-white face. "In my sleep? God, I hope not! I've been—I've been doing that too often lately!"
"Along the shore here, you mean?"
"I—well, at least once, yes. I was almost at that strange cove once when I woke up. That Anse—what is it called?"
"Anse Douce."
"Yes. Anse Douce. In fact, I was there, and even though it was night, I had to resist a strong urge to go swimming. But I told you about that, didn't I? Or was it Dr. Driscoll I spoke to about it?"
Without waiting for an answer, he let a scowl change the shape of his face. "May I ask what you are doing here at this hour, Doctor?"
Steve hesitated. "I'm looking for something."
"Looking for something?"
"Someone else went sleepwalking and had an urge to go swimming tonight. Came back naked and said he left his pajamas on the beach here somewhere. I'm just doing a bit of checking." Here was a chance to get to know Lindo better, wasn't it? "Why don't you come along with me?"
"Well—"
"I wish you would. If you've been walking in your sleep, I can't in good conscience let you go back alone, can I? And I do want to find those pajamas before the tide takes them out or some fisherman comes along and takes a fancy to them."
"Well—all right," Lindo replied with apparent reluctance. "Afraid I won't be much help, though, without a flashlight."
"It is a dark night. I'm surprised you got this far without a light."
Lindo looked down at his empty hands. "I'm—surprised, too, Doctor." His words were slurred again. "How—how did I—how do you suppose I knew enough to get dressed, but didn't realize it was so dark? Is it the booze, Dr. Spence? Will I ever be my old self again?"
"Lawton," Steve said gently, "let's have a long talk about that later. Right now we've some pajamas to find."
They went on together, Steve again using his flashlight to sweep the beach ahead. Again its beam seemed to magnify the lumps of coral, the crabs scurrying, the clumps of washed-up seaweed that demanded investigation. The breeze off the sea was so light it barely cooled his face. The waves were but ripples, touching the shore with little more noise than his own breathing.
When they reached Anse Douce, Lawton Lindo shuffled to a halt and turned to stare at the jumble of coral boulders looming there. Steve stopped, too, and frowned at him.
"You see something?"
"I—no, Doctor. I feel something."
This was where Paul Henninger had come ashore, if his story could be believed. Very slowly Steve played his light over the cove beach, from one end to the other.
One clump of seaweed seemed suspicious and he walked over to it, even pushed it apart with a foot. But the suspicious ingredient was only a ragged T-shirt left by some youngster, or perhaps dropped off a boat and washed ashore.
"You say you feel something here, Mr. Lindo? It would help if you—"
"Could be more specific?" The attorney shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I—well, I can't find the right words for it. That's a sorry admission, isn't it, from a man with a reputation for always knowing what to say in a courtroom." The too-white face had taken on a look of apprehension now, perhaps even of fear. "It's like—it's like the moth and the flame thing, but in this case the moth senses he's going to be destroyed but still can't resist. For God's sake, Doctor, don't let me go wandering away from the Azagon again. I might do something crazy."
Steve sent a glance at the jumble of boulders. Should he take the time to look there? No. Paul Henninger wouldn't have gone poking into such an unlikely place in the dark, and anyway, he ought to get Lindo away from here. There was something about this "peaceful cove" that—well, even he himself was getting some nasty vibes now, as though the place were some kind of time bomb that might go off at any minute.
Anse Douce behind them, they continued on down the shore to the row of fishermen's shacks at Pointe Pierre. There Steve halted. "End of the line," he said grudgingly. "No one ever swims beyond here, I'm told. Not even the townspeople."
Lindo was obviously tired. "Can we go back, then, Doctor?"
"Yes. Let's."
It was quarter to six by Steve's watch when Lindo and he arrived back at the Azagon. Dawn was jacking up the night sky with layers of pale color.
Steve took Lindo to his first-floor room and left him there, with a promise to return later in the morning for a discussion of his problems and a physical checkup. As he climbed the stairs to his own room, he was aware of the usual early-morning sounds from the kitchen.
He had not locked his door when he left, but had closed it, he was sure. To his surprise, it was open now. Entering, he found his handsome young Cuban friend, Juan Mendoza, sitting there on a chair by a window.
Steve blinked in surprise. "How long have you been here?"
"An hour or so, Steve. I have something to tell you. Something I think you ought to know."
Closing the door, Steve went to the dresser and leaned against it with his arms folded. "You followed Henninger tonight, didn't you?"
"How'd you know?"
"Tom Driscoll saw you go out, both of you. Look here." Straightening from his slouch, Steve moved his hands to his hips. "Paul says he went walking in his sleep again and woke up in the middle of the Atlantic, naked. Did you see him go swimming?"
"No, Steve."
"Well, he did arrive back here with nothing on. But when I walked the beach to Pointe Pierre just now, I couldn't find the pajamas he says he had on when he left here. What do you think, Juan? How far did you follow him, anyway?"
"Not to any beach," the Cuban said calmly. "He was wearing pajamas, yes, but he went into town. And he went by road."
"What?"
"He went into town by road. I was behind him every step of the way."
Steve thought about it. "Was he sleepwalking, you suppose?"
"Pretty purposeful sleepwalking, if you ask me. I think he wore his pajamas to have an alibi if anyone saw him. You know the section of town they call The Hounfor? I don't suppose you do."
"The Hounfor? That's voodoo. The inner sanctum."
"True. And that part of Dame Marie, back of the marketplace, is where the voodoo people live. But it's also the local red-light district. That's where I lost him."
Steve took in a breath and waited.
"I was close behind him when he passed the market. He turned down a lane just beyond it. When I reached the lane, he was nowhere in sight," Mendoza said.
"Then?"
"He could have gone into any of the houses along there. They're all whorehouses." The Cuban shrugged. "I walked the lane and back, trying to be a detective, but he'd vanished. There wasn't even a light in a window. I suspect he saw me following him and warned them to put the lights out."
"So his tale of a swim—"
"All I know is what I've told you."
"But damn it, Juan, if you wanted to get laid and hide the fact, would you invent a story about going for a midnight swim? It makes no sense!"
"It might if you lost your pajamas and had to explain coming home without them."
"How could he lose his pajamas in a place like that?"
"He's a foreigner, Steve. Some of the natives here have a weird sense of humor where off-islanders are concerned."
Steve was silent for a time, then shook his head. "I need some time to think about this," he said at last. "Get the hell out of here, will you? Go skin diving or harness racing or whatever it is you do for amusement at the moment. Leave me alone with what I have to do."
But as Mendoza got up and walked to the door, Steve felt the need to add apologetically, "I didn't mean that, lad. I appreciate your trying to help in all this, believe me."
When the door closed behind Mendoza, Steve looked at his watch again. What he called his "getting-up-time" was six-thirty, so there was no point in going to bed now. He opened his door and stepped into the hall. After a pause to make sure the rest of the Azagon still slept—except, of course, for the kitchen help downstairs—he strode silently along the corridor to a room he had been in twice before, and lightly knocked.
"Yes?" The voice was Nadine Palmer's.
"Me. Steve."
He heard her get out of bed and come to the door. When it opened, he silently entered.
Nurse Palmer relocked the door and stepped into his waiting arms. "What a nice surprise!" she whispered. Her nightgown was a bit of froth that let him thoroughly enjoy holding her. She returned his kiss with fervor.
But then he shook his head and stepped back. "I came to talk, lady. And not about us this time." When alone with her before, he had talked about what he now called his five lost days—those days at the Brightman, of which he remembered nothing, following his experience at La Souvenance. Over and over he had begged Nadine to tell him why she had refused to see him before he left there and returned to the States—why she had never replied to his letters—why, though they had been so very much in love, she had slammed the door and locked him out of her life.
"Come to bed," she urged him now. "We've time enough."
"Well . . . but I do have to talk to you."
With his clothes off and Nadine naked beside him, he explored her body with his fingertips and briefly told her about Paul Henninger's latest adventure. She wasn't much interested, he realized. Though this was not the first time they had been in bed together since his coming to the Azagon, maybe there was something special about their making love at such an unlikely time, when the day was about to begin and they just might be found out.
What would he say if it became known that Nadine and he were lovers? Especially what would he say to old Tom Driscoll, a lifelong bachelor who looked upon women as creatures to be kept at arm's length?
He finished his story. "What do you think?"
"I think I want to be made love to." She was touching him in a way that guaranteed she would get her wish, too.
To hell with Henninger's midnight swim, Steve decided. He was even more in love with this woman now than before his blackout at La Souvenance. But as their bodies became one, the memory of their other life together, with its unanswered questions—all those questions Nadine seemed so determined never to answer—suddenly intervened in a rush of nightmare, as though the door of the room had suddenly been flung wide and some hideous nightmare monster had bored in to crowd between them and punish him.
"Are you saying you mean to stop me from opening that gate and walking out of here, compère?"
"It will not be I, m'sié. It will be the loa."
"They will stop me?"
"Yes, m'sié. Or punish you."
Punish him how?
"You have no right to be doing this with this woman, Stephen Spence! Stop it!"
But the command from the past came too late. They had both already stopped, for the good and simple reason that both, at the same instant, had reached a shuddering climax. Withdrawing, Steve turned over and lay on his back to stare wild-eyed at the ceiling.
Slowly the nightmare intruder dissolved, and he turned his head to look at the woman beside him. "Nadine?"
"Yes?"
"There's so damned much I don't remember about that last week at the Brightman. All I know is that you spent most of your time working on me, then wouldn't even let me say good-bye. Why? Why did you make me mumble a good-bye through a locked door?"
"Steve, please. Not now."
"I have to know, love! You're a nurse, for Christ's sake. You work in psychiatry. Can't you see what this is doing to me?"
"Steve, I need time to think about it."
"Think about what? I wrote you letters. They were love letters. But you never answered them, and I didn't know what had happened, even where you were, until Tom Driscoll finally returned one with the news that you'd left the Brightman. 'A very unhappy woman,' Tom called you, but didn't even tell me where you'd gone. When I phoned him, he said he didn't know." Steve's voice became a whisper. "Why, hon? Why?"
"I can't tell you, darling."
"What did I do in those five lost days besides lie there in a coma while you looked after me? Tell me!"
"Some other time, Steve. Not now."
"I hurt you somehow, didn't I?"
She silenced him by putting her mouth against his.
Yes, he must have hurt her somehow. Obviously. And obviously she had forgiven him or he would not now be in her bed. But why wouldn't she tell him what he had done?
Had it been that terrible?
She was in his arms again now, wanting him again. This time when they relaxed, he put the unanswered questions of the past behind him and focused on present problems.
"Tell me, love—how do you feel about Paul Henninger? Is he up to something shady?"
"I don't know what to think about him, Steve."
"Should I urge Tom to find a new manager?"
It was strange. Twice in the past ten minutes they had been locked in a passionate embrace, cut off completely from the everyday world. Now in deep thought Nadine silently frowned at him for what seemed a long time.
"You're not going to like this, Steve. But I think if anyone is up to something, it's more likely to be Juan Mendoza."
"Juan?" He really was astonished. "Why?"
"Twice he's propositioned me."
"Well, we can't fault him for that. He's young, and you're a lovely woman."
"It wasn't that kind of proposition. He didn't invite me to bed. He wanted to take me swimming."
"But that's a hobby of his—swimming, reef exploring, whatever you want to call it."
"Maybe so," Nadine said quietly. "But he wanted to take me at night."
8
The door of George Benson's bedroom slowly opened—seemed to float open, as in a dream—and his wife Alice came gliding in. Without a sound except for the faint whispering of her pink nightgown, she approached the bed and stood the
re gazing down at him.
George was awake, with his eyes half open. She must have known he was awake. But she said nothing.
She was still an alluring woman, George had to admit, especially misty and pretty tonight. All the sensuous words came to mind when he looked at her. But what did she want, coming into his room in the middle of the night?
As though performing a ritual of some kind, she raised one arm and held it over him, the hand turned palm down and making slow, circular motions above his face. Ritual or no, it was pleasant and soothing.
He lay there looking up at her, noting the dark swelling of her breasts revealed by her low-cut gown. He was tempted to reach up and caress them but knew she would be fiercely angry if he did. Even when their marriage had been halfway decent she had hated to have her breasts touched. It was some kind of phobia with her, he supposed. Or maybe they were unusually sensitive.
"Sleep, George," she intoned. "Sleep . . . sleep and dream again, George. Dream the lovely dream again. Are you hearing me, George?"
"I hear you."
The hand stopped its hypnotic movements and she leaned closer to look at him. He thought she might even be going to touch her lips to his, but of course she didn't. After peering into his face for a moment she straightened again, turned away, and glided like a ghost from the room.
George felt himself drifting off to sleep and could not prevent it.
What time this happened, or if it happened at all, George did not know when he awoke. He exploded out of sleep with a yell that was still reverberating from the walls when he found himself sitting rigidly upright in bed with his mouth full of pain and blood.
The night was over. Objects in the room—bureau, chairs, the charts of St. Joe's north coast that he had thumbtacked to the walls—were just becoming distinct in the first faint light from the windows.
He knew what had waked him. No mystery about that. He had bitten his tongue again. But later, in the bathroom, when the pain had begun to subside and he recalled Alice's nocturnal visit, he was confused. Had she really come into his room, or had he only dreamed it?