The Lower Deep

by Hugh B. Cave

  The stockbroker looked down at the floor and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can see now how stupid I was. But at the time, my mind—if it was mine at that point—kept telling me I mustn't disturb you. You'd been so busy. You needed your sleep. You would be angry. I can't explain it better than that."

  "You did see Juan go out right after Paul? You're certain of that?"

  "Yes, I'm certain."

  "What was he wearing?"

  "The khaki pants he gardens in. That wild Joseph's coat of a shirt he seems so fond of."

  "And you do feel he was actually following Paul?"

  "Paul was just out of sight at the end of the yard when the door opened again and Juan appeared.

  He waited a few seconds, perhaps to be sure Paul would not look back and see him in the moonlight, then hurried across the yard in the same direction."

  Steve asked himself what he should do. He could call Lieutenant Etienne, he supposed, but what would he say? "One of our patients saw Paul Henninger go out again at four-thirty this morning, Roger. Same old story, and I'm worried. He's been going for walks every day, of course, but never at that hour. No, I haven't any idea where he might have gone. Perhaps to The Hounfor again—if, indeed, that ever was a destination of his and he wasn't just passing through there on his way to somewhere else. Or to Anse Douce for another swim, God help us. Or will he just disappear again for several days and come back not knowing what happened to him, as he did the last time?"

  Better wait. It was only quarter to seven, and Juan Mendoza was playing detective again. Juan had been pretty good at sleuthing in the past. Hold off a little longer, anyway. And I hope it's my own mind advising me, Steve thought with a sudden touch of fear, and not whatever it was that told Morrison he mustn't disturb me.

  "All right, Robert." Frowning at his patient, he shook his head in compassion. "You'd better try for some sleep now. God knows you need it."

  His patient departed. Steve picked up the phone and tried to reach Louis Clermont at the doctor's home. On the third try, some fifteen minutes later, he succeeded.

  "Louis, I'm sorry. Paul's gone. He was seen leaving here about four-thirty with Juan Mendoza tailing him. I'm just hoping Juan will bring him back."

  There was a brief silence. Then Clermont said, "Well, if he does turn up, have him call me, will you?"

  "Of course."

  "Have him call me here at home, please, no matter what the time. I won't be going to my office today."

  "Tired, Louis? You've a right to be, driving back and forth over that god-awful road to Le Cap as often as you—"

  "It's more than that, Steve. Much more."

  "Oh?"

  "Very much more, Steve. I'll get back to you about it." And Abe Lincoln hung up.

  Two hours later the army jeep pulled up in the Azagon driveway and Lieutenant Roger Etienne stepped out of it. In the vehicle, looking disconsolate and apprehensive in a soiled white shirt and black trousers, sat the Azagon's cook, Ti-Jean Lazaire. Guarding him was young Dion from the army post.

  Etienne found Steve at his desk in the office. "Morning, Doctor," he said without expression. "I've got your cook outside."

  Steve brightened. Now at last there might be some answers to the questions that were driving him up the wall.

  "Shall I bring him in?" Etienne said. "He won't make any trouble, I promise you."

  "Yes, do. Bring him to the library, why don't you? We'll have more room there."

  The lieutenant returned to the front door and motioned to his man in the jeep. Dion spoke to the cook, and both got out. A moment later the cook was seated in the Azagon's library with Steve and the two army men, Lazaire staring vacantly at the floor while Etienne talked.

  "It's taken me this long- to locate him because that fellow in The Hounfor, the one who makes coffins, gave me half a dozen places to go and look," Etienne said with a shrug. "I finally picked him up at the home of his lady friend at Carrefour, on the plantation. By the way," he added, "I stopped in to see Elizabeth Langer, and she's improving. Seems to be in pretty good shape, in fact, for a woman who has been through what she says happened to her. I thought you might like to know."

  "Thanks. I'm glad."

  "Okay, then. Here he is. Do you want to ask him some questions, or shall I tell you what he's already put out in answer to mine?"

  "You tell me first, Lieutenant."

  The army man looked at Ti-Jean Lazaire and wagged his handsome head as though he found it hard to believe such a man could exist. "Well, first of all he insisted he wasn't out to do anyone here any harm. He likes you people, he says. Am I quoting you correctly, Lazaire?"

  Lifting his head, the cook nodded.

  "He is especially fond of Paul Henninger and the man who was drowned, he told me. Those two in particular. He could see they were in some kind of trouble, so he tried to help them."

  Steve directed a questioning stare at his employee. "What kind of trouble, Ti-Jean?"

  "I would rather not say, Doctor."

  "I think you pretty much have to."

  "Well . . . it seemed to me there was some kind of wickedness going on here, m 'sié. Something very bad that was making people sick, giving them terrible headaches and nightmares, and making them walk in their sleep to places where more wickedness would await them."

  "Voodoo, you mean?"

  The cook shook his head. "Voodoo is not wicked. Oh, there are a few wicked loa, yes, and now and then some mambo or houngan may do evil things, but voodoo itself is a good thing, Doctor."

  "You were referring to bocorism, then?"

  "No, m 'sie'. Worse than anything a witch doctor can do. Something truly evil."

  "So what you do to protect yourself against this evil presence," Etienne interrupted, spreading both hands in a gesture of resigned acceptance, "is sprinkle some salt around. Or you light black candles in a room they've been coming to—the blackness of the candle attracting the other evil to it—absorbing it, so to speak—and the purity of the flame destroying it." He smiled, as though a man of his background could not be expected to believe such nonsense. "Or you burn incense. Or stretch a tape measure across the window to keep the presence out." He turned to his subordinate. "Am I getting it right, Dion?"

  The younger army man, probably of peasant stock, refrained from smiling and looked vaguely unhappy, but said with obvious reluctance, "Er—yes, Lieutenant. Right."

  Steve studied the sad-faced cook with a new kind of feeling and spoke with compassion. "It was you who put the salt at Paul Henninger's door, Ti-Jean?"

  "Yes, Doctor. They are not supposed to step over salt."

  "Why did you visit that man in The Hounfor, the voodoo fellow who makes coffins? Was he advising you in these protective measures?"

  "Well, yes, he was advising me, m'sié. He is a good man. If you knew him, you would never say voodoo is bad. But also, one of the best things to keep evil spirits away is a carpenter's rule."

  "I see. So you went to a carpenter for one."

  "Not just to a carpenter, m 'sié. If the rule has been used to measure a coffin, it is even more powerful."

  "Tell me something," Steve said. "Why did Paul Henninger call on your coffin-maker friend? Why did he go in his pajamas? And why wouldn't he admit to us he'd been there?"

  "He went for help, m'sié. And wore pajamas so he could say he was walking in his sleep again if anyone saw him. The reason we denied going there is that we were afraid."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "That you and Dr. Driscoll would be displeased if you found out we were involved in voodoo. That you would discharge us."

  "When did Paul first go there?"

  "The night he woke up in the sea, Doctor."

  "Perhaps you'd better explain."

  "He went to Auxian Ramses, the houngan who makes coffins, to ask for help against the evil he felt was in the sea, calling to him."

  "What kind of help, Ti-Jean?"

  The cook inhaled deeply and shook his head while letting the brea
th out. Leaning forward on his chair, he spread his hands and said, "Dr. Spence, Mr. Henninger did not know what kind of help to ask for. But Auxian Ramses knew what to do and did it. He assigned him a personal loa. Do you know what that means?"

  A personal loa. Steve thought, remembering some of what he had learned about voodoo by attending services in Fond des Pintards. Yes, of course. Everyone in voodoo had a personal loa, to whom he or she looked for protection and to whom he or she paid homage. Homage usually took the form of private services at which that particular loa was honored by the drawing of his or her vèvé in cornmeal or ashes on the peristyle floor, the presentation of his or her favorite foods and drinks, and in some cases the offering of certain sacrifices. Some ceremonies were simple, some long and complex, depending on the particular loa and, at times, the extent of the help being asked for.

  "Which loa did Ramses assign to Paul?" Steve asked.

  "Agoué, Doctor."

  "The god of the sea."

  "Yes, the god of the sea. In case he ever again needed protection from the evil in the sea. And of course he did need protection that very night. When he left the voodoo house where the very first of his services to Agoué was in progress, he was drawn to the sea and woke up out of a trance to find himself swimming. If you remember, he was far out at sea and did not know in which direction the shore was. He might have drowned but for the sound of the voodoo drums in the very peristyle where that service was in progress."

  "Paul told you this, I suppose."

  "Both he and Auxian Ramses."

  "Did Paul ever mention a visit to any other house in The Hounfor?"

  "M'sié?"

  "One of our people here, Juan Mendoza, insists he followed Paul to a whorehouse there. Would you know about that?"

  "I do not believe it!" Lazaire spoke in obvious anger.

  "Why?"

  "Because I was the one who sent him to The Hounfor, and I certainly never told him about any whorehouse, or even that there are such places there. We were discussing voodoo one day, and he asked if I thought it could help him. I said yes, I believed it could, and I sent him to Auxian Ramses. No, no, Doctor. Mr. Henninger never went anywhere in The Hounfor except to Auxian's house."

  "The one with the fenced-in yard?"

  "The one with the fenced-in yard. Yes."

  Then I wonder, Steve thought, why Juan Mendoza introduced a red-light district into this strange scenario. Did he want Paul fired? Or was he trying to keep me from investigating further and finding out where Paul really went?

  He frowned at the cook again. "Ti-Jean, why didn't you tell me these things when I first questioned you?"

  Roger Etienne said, "Most likely he was afraid to, Doctor. As he just admitted, he thought if you knew he was mixed up in voodoo, you'd fire him." Rising from his chair, the lieutenant walked over to Lazaire and, in a gesture of affection, placed a hand on a shoulder now so drenched with sweat that the soiled white shirt looked as though it had been rained on.

  "I don't want to take up your time with needless details, Doctor," Etienne said, "but the fact is, this man thought he was risking his life to help you people. I mean it. I've learned a lot about him, trying to get him to talk. If I were you, I'd forget about firing him. Unless, of course, you have more questions."

  "Just two that I can think of at the moment," Steve said. "But I'm sure I know the answer to one of them already." He found he could even smile again now as he gazed at the cook. "Does garlic, too, keep evil spirits away, Ti-Jean?"

  "Yes, Doctor. Oh, yes."

  "I thought so. Long ago it used to keep away vampires, I've read. Well, the other question I've asked before. Were you ever at the Brightman Hospital in Fond des Pintards?"

  "No, m'sié, never."

  "It wasn't you who—no, you're not old enough. He was an old man. The one who granted me permission to attend La Souvenance, I mean. Damn it, where have I met you before?"

  "I was at La Souvenance, m 'sié," Lazaire said quietly.

  "You were?"

  "I was the keeper of the gate there. The man who begged you not to leave that evening. The man who warned you that certain of the loa would be displeased if you did."

  The night I almost died, Steve thought. The night I walked out of that place after arguing with this man for what seemed an eternity, and fell flat on my face before I ever reached the road. The night I went into a blackout during which I did something—God knows what—that cost me the love of a woman I wanted with all my heart to marry.

  Gazing long and hard at the cook, he slowly nodded. "Yes, now I remember. It was dark or nearly dark both times I talked to you, but now I remember. Ti-Jean, why wouldn't you tell me this before?"

  Part of the answer was what he expected. With a look that begged for understanding, Lazaire said, "As the lieutenant has pointed out, Doctor, if you had known I was a voodoo person, even such an unimportant one, would you have let me continue to work here?"

  Then the look changed to one of apprehension, perhaps of fear. More white showed in the man's eyes. He sat more stiffly on his chair, with the soles of his black shoes pressed hard against the office floor. His hands, on his knees, began to tremble. "And because"—even his voice was trembling now—"the loa who punished you might be annoyed with me for talking, m 'sié. Certain malevolent loa become very angry when their deeds are discussed."

  Steve frowned at the change in the man. Was he sincere? Did he really dread punishment for what he was doing? Or was this only a clever attempt to bring the questioning to an end before he had to say more than he wanted to? "Well, tell me just one more thing, Lazaire. Do you know what happened to me that night when I walked out of the gate?"

  "I—perhaps I do, m 'sié. I mean I saw you fall, of course. I saw the nurse from the hospital—the woman we know as Nurse Palmer here—help you to the Jeep and drive away with you. Later I heard that you were ill for five days." Lazaire turned to look at Roger Etienne, as if imploring the lieutenant to stop what was happening. "But I—I should not be discussing that part of it, Doctor. Believe me, it is not safe—"

  But Steve had heard enough to make him relentless. "Why does it matter how long I was ill?" he demanded.

  "Because there is one particular loa—" Lazaire shuddered so violently that a bead of sweat from his face splashed on the desktop. 'Please, m'sié—"

  "Which loa was it? Come on, man, I went through hell because of what happened there at your ceremony. Pure hell, both mental and physical. I want some answers!"

  "I—I suspect you were possessed by Gèdé Cinq Jours Malheur, m'sié," the cook said in a hoarse whisper.

  "And who the hell is that? Why are you so afraid to talk about him?"

  "The Gèdés are the mystères of death, m'sié." Lazaire looked around him, wide-eyed, as though expecting one of them to be standing behind him to punish him for what he was saying. "He—he of the five days misfortune is especially malevolent, people say. I believe it was he who took over your mind to punish you for breaking the rules. You—you could have died from those five days of punishment, Dr. Spence!"

  Steve glanced at the two army men. With his face twisted into a dark scowl, Roger Etienne stared at Lazaire as though trying to assess the sincerity of the man's apparent terror. The younger man looked almost as frightened as the cook did.

  "Well, all right, Ti-Jean. Thank you for being honest with me."

  "May I—may I go now, Doctor?" The man was still shaking as he struggled up from his chair. "May I go to my quarters?"

  "Yes, of course."

  With a whispered "Thank you, m 'sié, thank you," and a look of enormous relief, Ti-Jean Lazaire hurried from the library. For some reason Steve, too, was relieved when the door clicked shut behind him.

  Steve turned to Roger Etienne then. "We have a bigger problem right now, Lieutenant, though I admit I thought that fellow was a major one until now." He told Etienne about the latest nighttime walk of Paul Henninger. "I'm hoping, of course, that Juan Mendoza will be able to bring hi
m back, but it seems more and more unlikely. What do you think of it?"

  Etienne said, "Wasn't your Dr. Mendoza himself missing for a few days a while ago?"

  "Well, yes, he was."

  "And you don't suspect—"

  "That he's done it again? No." Steve shook his head. "I'm sure he's recovered from that. Not that he remembered what happened to him, mind you. He didn't. But he's been very much his old self, very active, very busy and helpful around here in recent days."

  "Then I think Dion and I ought to have another look at the place where we found a certain name-pin, Doctor."

  "Where you found what?"

  The lieutenant took a silver brooch from the pocket of his khaki shirt and handed it over.

  Steve studied it, then looked up. "Alice? The name has some significance, you mean?" There was no woman named Alice at the Azagon.

  "George Benson's wife is named Alice, Doctor."

  "Hmm. So she is. Where did you find this?"

  "In the gully at Anse Douce. A sort of cave there. And by the number of footprints we found, it would seem more than a few people have used it lately."

  Steve handed the pin back. "May I go with you? I'd like to."

  "Of course."

  "Just give me a few minutes to tell Dr. Driscoll what's up, so he can take over while I'm gone. I won't be long."

  Etienne nodded, and Steve hurried from the room.

  Tom Driscoll still occupied the room at the far end of a first-floor corridor in which Steve had first talked to him on coming to the Azagon—that room across the hall from Paul Henninger's, which of course was empty now. On the way, Steve looked at his watch. The talk with Ti-Jean Lazaire had taken some forty minutes, and the hour was now just after nine A.M.

  It felt like late afternoon, he thought dourly. How long ago had Louis Clermont waked him with a phone call and asked to speak to Paul Henninger about something so important it couldn't wait? Only a little over three hours ago? That was hard to believe.

  Now, at nine, Tom Driscoll could be anywhere. He no longer sat in his room all day.

  The door opened, though, when Steve rapped on it. Driscoll stood there with a letter in his hand. The window was open, the room was full of good fresh air, and a pile of other mail lay on a desk the Azagon head had recently acquired, held down by that handsome silver letter opener given to him years ago by a grateful patient.