by Hugh B. Cave
"Eh?" he responded to Simone Valcin, snapping out of his reverie. "Etienne? Of course."
Looking somewhat less dapper than usual, the head of the town's little army post began speaking as he strode into the office. "Sorry to break in on you like this, Doctor, but Ginny Jourdan is missing. Have you seen her?"
Clermont sat up straighter. "Missing? You mean she's run away?"
"God knows. Her parents thought she was at home last night but found out this morning that her bed had not been slept in. After questioning everyone who might have seen her, they called me. I thought you might know something. She's always been a pal of yours, so to speak."
"Not lately," Clermont said, rising.
"Have you any idea where she might be?"
"No, I haven't. Nor do I have any idea why she's doing all these crazy things. Naked at Anse Douce, for God's sake—the nicest girl of her age in the whole town."
Etienne was obviously disappointed. "Well, I'll keep searching for her. But if I don't get onto something soon, I'll have to send for help."
After his caller's departure, Clermont stood in thought for a moment, then walked out to his receptionist. "See if you can get Maurice Jourdan on the phone, will you, Simone? I imagine he's at home." Going back into his office, he leaned on his desk and waited.
When his phone buzzed, he picked it up. "Maurice? Louis. What's this I'm hearing about Ginny from Roger Etienne? About her being missing."
The voice of the girl's father had sobs in it.
"She—she must have left the house after Leonie and I went to bed last night, Louis. When we turned in about ten-thirty, she was sitting in the living room with a book she had to read for school. This morning, when she didn't come for breakfast, we looked in her room and saw that her bed had not been used. Louis, she has never gone out at night before without at least saying something, even if what she told us wasn't the truth!"
"You all right, you and Leonie?"
"I don't think Leonie can hold up under this, Louis. After what has already happened, no. It's just too much."
"Should I come over?"
"Well, no. Not now, at any rate. I would rather you tried to help us find Ginny."
"All right. I'll keep in touch and come over later." Clermont hesitated. "Tell me something. I suppose you've been to Anse Douce to see if she's there. Or sent someone."
"Yes, yes, I've been there myself."
"I hate to say this, but did you walk the whole cove? Did you—look for her clothes, for instance?"
The silence lasted too long, Clermont thought. Then Maurice Jourdan said unsteadily, "I—walked the whole beach, Louis."
"And found nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Well, that's a relief, at least." It was, too, and Clermont let his breath out. "All right, good friend. Keep the faith, and I'll see what I can find out."
He hung up and went out to his receptionist again. Just before the arrival of Lieutenant Etienne he had seen a number of patients, but his outer office was empty now. "I'm going over to the alcoholics' place, Simone," he said. "Shouldn't be gone long."
She nodded.
He drove his old car to the Azagon and sat in Steve Spence's little office and told Steve about the missing girl. "It may be nothing more than what we should have expected, of course, after the way she's been behaving. She's been working up to something like this, no question of it. On the other hand, maybe she hasn't just run off. Maybe something has happened to her, Steve."
Steve gazed at the black Abe Lincoln slouching before him and wondered why Clermont had come to him. Not in hope that he might be able to help, he guessed. More probably just for someone to talk to about this latest turn of the screw. Louis Clermont was fond of the missing girl and her parents. For Ginny he apparently entertained an affection he would have felt for a daughter of his own. There was a real need, then, to find some way of helping him.
With a frown Steve said, "Something happened here last night, too. Maybe there's a connection."
"Oh?"
Steve recounted how he had seen the cook leaving the grounds and wondered if he might be on his way to The Hounfor to visit the man who made coffins. "I've told you about the coffin-maker, haven't I?"
Clermont nodded.
"Well, I was about to follow Lazaire again when Juan Mendoza appeared, obviously doing that very thing."
"The Cuban fellow."
"Yes. The one who says he followed Paul Henninger to the red-light district, the night Paul claims he woke up at sea. With him playing detective again, I headed for bed. But first I looked in on Paul."
With Clermont scowling at every word, Steve told what had happened in the manager's room.
"This gets curiouser and curiouser," the St. Joseph medic said.
"You haven't heard all of it yet."
"Oh?"
"This morning when I went to ask Mendoza what happened, he wasn't there. He still hasn't turned up. I haven't a clue where he might be."
"Brother. Ginny and your handsome young Cuban both missing? What about the cook?"
"He's here. I asked him where he went and he said to visit a friend. When I implied I didn't believe him, he became indignant and handed me a woman's name and address. Said he lived with her once in the capital, and I could check with her if I thought he was lying."
"An address in The Hounfor?"
"No. She lives in a place called Carrefour, wherever that is. I didn't mention his walk to the voodoo district. Guess I'm saving that until I can be sure of using it with some effect."
"Carrefour is a mini-village on the sisal plantation," Clermont said. "If you remember, we saw him on the plantation the day the boat disappeared." His frown deepened and he brought a hand up to rub his jaw. "You suppose I was on to something there a minute ago? What I said about Ginny and your Cuban fellow?"
"You don't mean—"
"He's young. He's handsome."
And unpredictable in many ways, Steve thought with a deepening scowl of his own. Was it possible? Dame Marie was a small community. The two could easily have met somewhere.
Mendoza. Here was a good-looking, energetic young fellow—energetic, hell, he was hyper!—who had fled with his parents from Cuba's political turmoil to the States when still a boy. In the U.S. he'd become a doctor after a growing-up that included about every adventure known to high-spirited youth. Along the way there must have been girls, probably many of them. And the young man was in some ways still a rebel, eager to try his hand at any new adventure that came down the pike.
And Ginny Jourdan? From what Clermont said, she was an unusually pretty girl and bright enough to be something of a rebel herself, probably demanding more out of life than being buried forever in a place like Dame Marie. She could hardly be faulted for being attracted to a man who seemed to offer a life of excitement.
Yes, it was entirely possible the two had found common ground somewhere.
Steve looked at his caller. "When Mendoza comes in, I'll have a talk with him and call you, Louis."
"Good."
They talked awhile longer—two concerned men putting forth ideas on what might be behind the grim things that were happening. Though full of respect and affection for each other now, each of them spent more time shaking his head at the other's theories than nodding in agreement. Clermont talked about the Jourdans and the Bensons, the loss of George's boat. Steve revealed that eight patients had left the Azagon and others had reservations to do so. "And it's going to get worse, Louis."
"What about your Dr. Driscoll? He must feel like the captain of a sinking ship."
"We haven't told him everything. Been worried about that stroke he had. But I've asked myself if it mightn't be a mistake to keep him in the dark."
"He's a psychiatrist, isn't he?"
Steve nodded.
"Being asked for help might snap him out of his depression. I think I'd bring him into this, Steve. Make him feel needed again."
"Yes. I believe you're right."
&nbs
p; The talk ran down and Clermont stood up. "Shall I look in on Paul Henninger before I go?"
"I wish you would."
They went to the manager's room together. But this time the man in bed was asleep and apparently not dreaming. His breathing was normal, his body quiet. Without disturbing him, Clermont merely nodded to Steve and departed.
George Benson called on Danielle André that Friday evening. He had met her earlier and told her he would be over if he could, so the door opened before he reached it. She'd been watching for him through a window, she told him with a smile.
When George made it clear that he was in no hurry to go home, Dannie was content to make coffee and sit with him for a while in her living room, just to talk.
"Your wife went out?" she asked.
"She went out last night."
"And again tonight?"
"Not again. She hasn't come back. After giving me the 'sleep and dream' routine I told you about, she took off. I tried to follow but was stopped by one of the worst headaches I've ever had in my life. Haven't seen her since."
"Do you still have it?"
He shook his head. "No, thank God, or I wouldn't be here. Nobody with a skull-buster like that would be wanting what I'm wanting."
Dannie smiled, then frowned. "Where do you suppose she goes, George?"
"A boyfriend somewhere, most likely. Maybe more than one. I keep thinking of Noel Coward's song, 'Alice Is at It Again.'"
"Poor Alice," Dannie said.
"Poor Alice?"
"There must be something wrong with your wife. You aren't that hard to please."
"I am very hard to please, lady. I need loving. And to love. How does that song go? 'I've never loved and I've never been loved till you.'"
"You're full of songs tonight." Smiling again, Dannie rose from her chair and went to sit beside him on the one piece of furniture—a sofa done in soft blue island cotton—that she had bought for this house she rented furnished from Louis Clermont. Then they both lost interest in talking and, with their arms around each other, went into the bedroom.
Later, lying naked in George's arms after they had made love to each other, Dannie André reached a decision in a matter that had been troubling her for days. She would not, could not, no matter how it nagged at her conscience, tell George about her true feelings for his wife.
Because—and this hurt—she would have to admit to him that Alice, whom he felt was so selfish and unfeeling, had from the very beginning, gone out of her way to be friendly to Danielle André.
Well, not from the very beginning, no. At the start, Alice had been pretty aloof, probably because she disliked teaching at the school anyway. Alice had never kept that a secret and made no bones about it even now. She taught there only because she couldn't gracefully get out of it. But in other respects she had become a very kind, considerate person. A real friend. Yes.
Look, for heaven's sake. Time and again she had come by Dannie's room on her way to lunch and suggested they go down to the cafeteria together. And at lunch the two of them had talked about what they liked to eat, to wear, to read, parts of the world they would love to visit—almost everything under the sun.
Talking like that with someone two or three days a week, over lunch, you began to feel close to her. Like a sister, almost. Or a lifelong friend.
In other ways, too, Alice had shown a desire to be friends. Day before yesterday, for instance.
She, Dannie, had been feeling really lousy for some reason. Had such a headache she thought she might be coming down with what the peasants called la fiev. When Alice stepped in to suggest they go down to lunch together, she'd had to say she didn't feel like eating. So after expressing sympathy, Alice had gone to the cafeteria alone.
But not to eat there. Uh-uh. She'd returned with a sandwich for herself and a cup of broth for Dannie and coaxed Dannie into drinking the broth. And afterward, Dannie had felt much better. Most likely not because of the broth, but because of Alice's kindness.
Obviously, this was a side of Alice's personality that George didn't see much of. Maybe he never saw it. People who married for the wrong reasons—in this case, George admitted he'd simply gone for the prettiest girl in his hometown—sometimes ended up like that, didn't they? Not really bad, just wrong for each other. So while George had no use for Alice now, she, Dannie, had to admit she liked her.
But she couldn't tell George these things. No, no. He would never understand.
He was beginning to make love to her again now, pulling her close to him with one hand and caressing her body with the other. It was a relief to stop thinking about what she should or should not tell him. A relief just to relax and be made love to, knowing that she cared for this man more every time she went to bed with him. And knowing that almost everyone else in Dame Marie felt good about him, too—especially the fishermen and their families—even if his wife did not. Alice might be kind and friendly, but she was a fool, all the same.
Dannie was one of the few teachers at the school who had a phone in her home. It had been there when she rented the house from Dr. Clermont. Suddenly it began ringing on the table beside the bed.
With an exaggerated groan she reached for it, at once wriggling back against George so both of them could hear the caller. "Hello?"
"Miss André? This is Dr. Clermont."
"Yes, Doctor."
"Hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all."
"I'm calling because Ginny Jourdan seems to be missing. Is missing, in fact. Officially, I mean—with the police notified and all. Seems she left home last night and hasn't been heard from since. I'm wondering if you've seen her."
"No, Doctor, I haven't."
"She wasn't in school today, I suppose."
"I didn't notice. I don't have her in any of my Friday classes. But it won't be hard to find out. I'm surprised the police—"
"Maybe they have. I don't know. I'm strictly an amateur, just trying to help out. Well, I guess if you haven't seen her, there's no point in my taking up more of your—"
"Has anyone questioned Eddie Forbin, Doctor?"
"Her boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"I believe Lieutenant Etienne had a talk with him, and he claims he hasn't seen her lately. Ginny's dropped him, it seems. By the way, do you by any chance know whether Ginny has been friendly with a young Dr. Mendoza from the alcoholics' place? He's a good-looking Cuban fellow, quite an independent soul in some ways, and it seems he also is missing."
"What's his name again?"
"Mendoza. Juan Mendoza."
"I've never heard her mention him."
"Well, that's something. Ought to keep things from getting even more complicated, at least. All right, Miss André. Thanks, and God bless."
Dannie returned the phone to the table and said to George, "Did you get any of that?" The conversation had been in French.
He shook his head, and she told him what had been said.
"Ginny Jourdan missing?" he echoed. "And a doctor from the Azagon?"
"And," she reminded him, "maybe your wife."
"Oh, hell," George said. "Alice isn't missing. She's just spending a longer time than usual with her boyfriend of the moment. Heaven help the poor bastard."
17
The news of Ginette Jourdan's disappearance swept through Dame Marie like a brushfire.
The girl had left home Thursday night and been reported missing by her parents Friday morning. All day Friday, Lieutenant Etienne and his men searched the town and its environs for her. By Saturday the community talked of little else.
Ginny's schoolmates discussed her disappearance wherever they happened to be gathered. Some, recalling her fondness for going alone to Anse Douce, went looking for her there.
They failed to find her. But at the end of the beach, where it became a gully filled with huge chunks of coral, they did find something of note.
There, kicking sand as he walked, a boy turned up a bit of pink and white striped flannel.
"Hey, what's this?" he yelled, and pulled up a pajama jacket. Then on his knees he dug deeper like a dog after a buried bone and uncovered the pants as well.
The kids took their find to Dame Marie's little army post, and Lieutenant Etienne drove to the Azagon with it. There he unwrapped the pajamas on Steve Spence's desk. "Take a look at these, Doctor. Are they the ones your manager fellow was wearing the night he claimed he went swimming and came back naked?"
Steve did not know, but carried the pajamas to Henninger's room where the Belgian was still in bed. The answer to his question did not really startle him.
"Yes, oh, yes!" Henninger sat up with more vigor than he had displayed in days. "Now can I hope you'll believe me?"
"I never said I didn't believe you, Paul. But tell me something. The kids who found these said they were buried. Not just dropped and covered by drifting sand, but buried. I wouldn't buy the drifting sand theory anyway because, if you remember, Lawton Lindo and I walked the whole cove that night and saw nothing. Do you recall burying them?"
Henninger shook his head. "I don't recall anything. As I told you, I must have walked there in my sleep."
"Well, either you buried them or someone else did. At least, we've found them. That's a small step toward solving one of our mysteries, at any rate."
But it was no help in the town's collective effort to find Ginny Jourdan. Nothing of hers was discovered at Anse Douce or anywhere else.
Etienne had questioned young Eddie Forbin, the girl's boyfriend, soon after Ginny was reported missing. After the discovery of the pajamas he interrogated the youth again. This time he did so at Forbin's home in the presence of his parents, who were two of Dame Marie's most respected citizens.
"You say you haven't been out with Ginny in more than two weeks, Eddie?"
"That's right, sir. I'm not saying I didn't try. She just wasn't interested anymore, she told me."
"Has she been going out with someone else, do you know?"
"I don't think so. Not with anyone in town, for sure, or I'd have heard about it."