Color Him Dead

by Charles Runyon

Drew handed over the folded square of paper. “And I want a record of Edith Barrington’s trial two years ago.”

  Guillard raised his brows, then turned to Chaka. “The transcript is in my office. Tell the girl you want number six in the Barrington file.” When the giant had gone, Guillard looked intently at Drew. “He follows my advice because I understand the whites. I presume your quarrel with Barrington concerns the woman. I wonder if she’s worth it.”

  Drew shrugged. “Maybe you don’t know her well enough.”

  “Possibly not,” said Guillard. “When I heard that Ian was bringing a wife home from one of his trips, I visualized one of those bony, cold-handed sporting-set women whom the Barrington men had always chosen to strengthen their dynasty. Then I met her at a government function—one of those mixed affairs where you can’t help feeling everybody’s looking at your feet to see if you’ve got your shoes on. I couldn’t place her. She spoke Parisian French and English with no local accent at all; she ignored all questions about her origin, and I admit I ceased to care. For the first time I wondered if there wasn’t something worth learning about white women. She was vibrant and intelligent, and I thought, Here is a tigress to match the old lion. But that was before her troubles began.”

  “Troubles?” said Drew.

  “She didn’t fit the tight female society of the plantocracy. Mrs. Barrington started romping in those ancestral beds, and their ranks closed like a steel gate. They treated her with frigid correctness, but the husbands had enough warmth to make up for it. I suppose the women fought that too, in their own way.” He chuckled. “I laugh to think of those fat flatulent females introducing a pathetic quiver to the act of copulation, crying out in counterfeit orgasms….”

  Guillard trailed off as though the words had not really stopped, but continued inside his head. After a moment he went on:

  “… Can’t blame her really. Ian was nearing fifty and preoccupied with his so-called servant girls. But he wasn’t so preoccupied that he didn’t know what his wife was doing—and with whom. One of her lovers had two cargo schooners running between here and Barbados. Ian, with five schooners, cut his rates so low the man lost money. Had to sell one ship, and not long afterward the other caught fire in the harbor and burned. You can see the hull still lying there. Another man who took an interest in her had to sell his plantation and leave the island: Ian refused to ship his cargo, so his bananas lay on the dock and rotted. One by one the men here decided that Mrs. Barrington just wasn’t worth the risk. Her only contacts were with tourists and newcomers who didn’t know the score. But Ian wasn’t satisfied. He built her a house on Barrington’s Isle and installed Doxie as a watchdog. Ian visited her once a month. Then came a row about his girls back in the bush. One of them sneaked off to town and came back diseased, so Ian moved the harem to the island too. Built the girls a wooden barracks about a hundred yards behind his wife’s house. He still visited his wife once a month, but he used to see the girls every other night. You get the picture? She hears his boat coming and going, and she sits in the big house and twiddles her thumbs while a bug-eyed man with no urge watches her like a weasel. Everybody thought, well, Ian’s won again, he’s killed another free spirit. But we were wrong … ah, here it is. You can read it yourself.”

  Drew turned to see Chaka walk in and throw a manila envelope down on the table. Drew opened it and started reading. Vaguely he was aware that Chaka had departed on another mission, but the transcript commanded his full attention.

  The case against Edith had hinged upon the testimony of one Millicent Deterville. She testified that she had seen Edith peer in the window of the dormitory on the night of September 4. She had run to the window just as the flames shot up. A minute later the dormitory was surrounded by flames twelve feet high, whipped through the shoulder-high grass by a high wind. She had been the first one out, but the heat had sucked away her breath, and she had fainted.

  Edith’s defense counsel cross-examined.

  Q. What were you doing in the dormitory?

  A. I lived there. I was … in training to be a servant.

  Q. Alone?

  A. No, we were six.

  Q. All in training?

  A. Yes, sir.

  Q. And did Ian Barrington visit this boarding school?

  A. Yes.

  Q. He had a room there?

  A. No, sir. He slept in different rooms.

  Q. In the girls’ rooms?

  A. Yes.

  Q. In your room?

  The prosecution objected, and defense replied that he intended to show that Millicent Deterville was in a sense a mistress of Ian Barrington, and thus might have cause to lie about Edith’s part in it, and at the very least was not of unimpeachable morals. The objection was sustained however, and Millicent dismissed from the stand. Next the prosecution called Albert Montres to the stand, who gave his occupation as fisherman and chauffeur.

  “Albert?” Drew looked up. “Is that—Chaka?”

  Gil nodded. “That is Chaka. They choose their own names, but in court they must use the one listed on the birth records. You know, of course, that Millicent Deterville also calls herself Leta.”

  The news sent a physical shock through Drew. “She never told me.”

  “Possibly she dislikes the name.”

  “I mean, about being one of Barrington’s girls.”

  “Oh. Perhaps she wanted to forget. Or she was ashamed.”

  Drew thought of Leta’s fear of Barrington, of Edith, and her refusal to spend the night on the island. Leta was now more understandable, and, though Drew had no time to consider why, more interesting.

  Turning back to the transcript, Drew learned that Albert—or Chaka—had been on the island that night and had seen the fire. He had found Edith standing outside the circle of flames. He testified:

  “The madame was laughing crazy. I ask, is anyone inside? She laugh some more and say that if he likes them hot, let him see if he likes them now. I hear scream. I try to run and she cling to me, say, ‘Let them burn, let them burn.’ But I get free and take out all but two girls. Then the roof fall.”

  Again the defense tried to impugn the reliability of the witness, establishing the fact that Chaka had been using the island as a transfer point for smuggled rum, and had been present that night only because he had to accept delivery of a shipment. It was a feeble defense, and Edith’s man did little with it; to Drew it seemed that he did very little with anything.

  “Odd,” he mused, “that a man like Barrington couldn’t get his wife off the hook.”

  Guillard nodded. “A curious case altogether. For years I had been trying to get Barrington through his weakness for these adolescent girls. I could find fathers angry that their daughters had been put into his harem. I could persuade them to charge Barrington with carnal knowledge. But suddenly the father would turn up with a new house and a good job with the Barrington organization. The charges were dropped. Then came two deaths, and I began working on behalf of the girls’ families, persuading Chaka and Leta to testify. I expected trouble from Ian, but there was none. I began to realize I was playing into his hands for reasons I didn’t know—until later.”

  “What were they?”

  “Look at the evidence. His wife, getting wilder and wilder while he built the fences higher and higher. I think finally she wanted escape. Permanent escape. He didn’t like that. He wanted a way to hold her, so he set it all up—”

  “Burned the harem himself, you mean?”

  “No, but he surely knew she’d do something like that when he put it there. After that it was simple—get her committed, released into his care. Then if she ran away, she would be not just a runaway wife, she would be a poor demented woman who had to be returned to her husband for her own good. Simple, you see?”

  Drew nodded, forcing down a feeling of pity for Edith. Chaka returned and flipped a square of cardboard on the table.

  “You have any trouble?” asked Drew, picking it up.

  Chaka drank a
half-glass of rum and vented a Gargantuan belch. “No.”

  “I expected Doxie to report me.”

  “Not if you know Doxie,” said Guillard. “He’s out to prove something, and he won’t want you to leave until he’s proved it. In Doxie’s book, that could mean going out in a box.”

  Drew felt a twinge of annoyance. Why didn’t the red man find some other way to prove himself? He folded the visa into his wallet. He didn’t bother to thank the men; they had performed a service and expected a service in return. Guillard might have been reading his thoughts, for at that moment he said:

  “Before you go, Seright, we would like certain details from you. Such as how, when and where.”

  Drew struggled to make his words convincing, aware that his plan hinged on their acceptance of him. “How? I plan to … gain Ian Barrington’s confidence, catch him off guard, and shoot him. After that I’ll hide the body and get out before anybody knows he’s dead.”

  “It won’t do.” Guillard got up, paced the room with the smooth rhythm of a black leopard. “No. It must be known the moment he is dead, so we can coordinate our own movements. You must kill him in the presence of witnesses.”

  “I wouldn’t get ten yards.”

  “Not if you use that little toy you carry. But we can provide you with a thirty-caliber rifle with a telescopic sight. You can shoot him from sufficient distance to make your getaway. But then Chaka’s men will be keeping the authorities too busy to think about you.”

  Drew turned to Chaka. “You have guns for all your men?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your men have shot them?”

  Chaka looked down into his glass. “They understand the guns. They will shoot them … when the time comes. We cannot spare the bullets for practice.”

  With a sinking sensation, Drew realized the revolution was doomed; fishermen and charcoal burners who had never fired a gun would never stand against trained cops and experienced gunmen. The revolt would be too quickly smashed to serve as a cover; he would have to finish before it began.

  “Okay, I’ll do this. I’ll signal when it’s done. We’ll work that out later. I’ll do it where somebody can see that he’s dead, right? So your men’ll have the guts to fight. But I use my own gun.”

  The two looked at each other and exchanged some invisible sign of agreement. Guillard nodded. “All right. Where?”

  “Barrington’s Isle.”

  Guillard raised his brows, then nodded to Chaka. “I like that concept. In the bush Ian has his own private army; in town he walks with an armed companion. Only on the island will he be off his guard, in the company of his loving, faithful wife.” He turned to Drew. “That brings us up to the last question. When?”

  Drew thought quickly; he would need as much time as he could get. “Okay, you plan to trigger your revolution the minute he’s dead. You’ll need time to instruct your men and distribute the guns. You’ve got to have men inside the cable office so they can’t call for help. And the yachts in the harbor will have wireless radios. You’ve got to isolate the island from the outside world until you’ve got full control. Dynamite the airfield so they can’t land soldiers. Sink a couple of ships in the harbor entrance. What’s a good day? A holiday, when half the police force is drunk and nobody’s working, when the streets are clogged with people ready to be formed into mobs the minute there’s a chance for action—”

  “Carnival,” breathed Guillard, whirling so that his jacket billowed out. “The masks, every man a stranger. Parades, steel bands, firecrackers, drums, chaos, see the picture, Chaka? Emotion runs high. A few blacks get out of hand and smash store windows. Let them have their fun, say the masters, we’ll work their black asses off when it’s over. But lo! The violence increases. A white is killed, then another. The masters tremble in their villas. Why doesn’t somebody do something? But the communications are out. The governor cowers in the palace, burning official documents as his family prepares to flee the island, wondering: Why isn’t Barrington here to tell us what to do? But alas, Barrington is dead, killed by a man he trusted. Yes!” He slapped both hands onto the table. “Chaka, we have only a week to prepare.” And then, as though he had just remembered Drew, he turned and asked: “You need anything more, man?”

  Drew smiled; now there would be time. “A little legal advice, a few supplies. And I want Chaka to sneak me onto Barrington’s Isle—tonight.”

  SIX

  The sinking sun throws the humped shadow of Barrington’s Isle across Petty-lay. An old man lights an oil lamp in the savanne. Black bare feet move silently on white sand streets as lovers go to the beach in pairs. In a dozen doorways, cutlasses sing on stone as their owners sharpen them for tomorrow’s work. In the savanne, old men sit on fallen palm trunks and talk in their bubbling patois, invisible except for the red glow of their cigarettes.

  Chaka sat in the middle thwart, filling a space wide enough for two oarsmen. Drew felt the narrow pirogue leap forward each time the twelve-foot oars bit the water. The sea seemed to be a mound sloping off in all directions. Ahead, a line of white marked the beach of Barrington’s Isle.

  “You can blow the conch?” asked Chaka softly.

  “I will learn,” said Drew.

  “Three times when he is dead. A man will answer from Petty-lay.”

  “Yes.” Drew fingered the conch he held in his lap. As large as his head, the whorled shell was cut off at one end to leave an opening like a mouthpiece. Drew slid his hand inside the flange and grasped the pearly interior as though it were a sword hilt. He would blow the conch, yes, but whether or not Barrington died would depend on Barrington.

  The boat passed beneath the ramparts of the fort. Here the current fanned out from the narrow strait and dissipated its force into the open sea. Chaka strained at the oars, heading the boat toward the northeast. The direction of their movement was due north; they would land on the seaward side of the island, away from the big house. Rounding the rocks below the fort, Drew saw the white line of the reef and the pluming spray where the sea charged against it. Chaka maneuvered toward an opening, back-paddled until he caught the crest of a wave, then sailed over the reef and into a tiny lagoon. He vaulted out into thigh-deep water, seized the prow, and dragged the boat onto the sand.

  Drew stepped out and picked up the woven straw bag which contained his supplies. He looked at Chaka, who was almost invisible in black shirt and black trousers. “I’ll make it from here.”

  “Then … in three days I return to this spot.”

  “I’ll be here,” said Drew, and clambered up the ten-foot cliff behind the beach. His feet crunched on salt-crusted grass as he stepped onto level ground. This was the island’s windward slope, a bleak plain covered by short grass, dotted by flaring agave and spindly hexagon cactus. The sea drove into the honeycombed rock beneath his feet, sending fumaroles geysering up through holes in the surface. The rushing air made a medley of sounds: the mournful bleat of a fog horn, the distant howl of a coyote, the moaning of women and children trapped in a cave. Drew realized he would miss Leta; he would even miss those two tentative, uncertain allies, Guillard and Chaka. Maybe it was better to be alone, now that he had things to do. He had been getting soft.

  He reached his shack and found no sign of disturbance. Even his rum bottle remained on the table with his glass beside it. It seemed years since he had taken that last drink.

  He retrieved his bag from its hiding place and labored up the ancient stone steps to the fort. Reaching the opening in the waist-high parapet, he lowered his burden and took a roll of black nylon fishing cord from his bag. He tied one end to the left side of the opening, about eighteen inches from the ground, passed it between two stones on the other side, then walked on, unrolling the cord. The fort itself was an irregular two-acre rectangle paved with flagstones. At the northern end stood four concrete pillars, still holding the severed base of a steel radar tower. A low stone roof rose three feet above the center of the fort, sheltering an underground room which had once
held powder for English cannon. He attached the cord beside the three-foot-high entrance, made sure it moved freely, then tied two pill bottles to the end. They would tinkle if anyone came up the steps.

  He leaned through the opening and shined his flashlight down the eight-foot ladder. A rustling noise came from below. He blinked his light and evoked a shrill chittering. A hundred beady eyes looked up at him.

  Sorry brother rats. I need your hole.

  He gathered up an armload of the waist-high grass which grew between the flagstones. Twisting a bunch into a faggot, he struck a match and held it to the grass. It caught with startling speed. It crackled and spat like a pine knot, singeing his eyebrows with a sudden gout of flame. He flung it into the room and thought: No wonder those poor girls didn’t escape from the harem. The whole damn island’s a tinderbox. He tossed more grass down onto the fire, and within a minute smoke was billowing out of the opening. Suddenly the hole disgorged a gray, squeaking flood of rats, blinded and terrified, blundering into his legs, and finally disappearing into the grass. While he waited for the room to air out, Drew returned to the shack and carried up a charcoal cookpot, a blanket, charcoal cooking utensils, and his Coleman lantern. The underground room still held a stench of smoke and rats, but he’d get used to it. He lit the lantern, threw out five dead rats that had perished in the purge, and built a fire in the cookpot. He fanned it until the coals glowed red, put on a frying pan, and dropped in a dozen lead sinkers which Chaka had bought in the fishing supply store. Then he clambered quickly up the ladder to escape choking from the smoke.

  He strolled around the parapet, surveying his citadel for weak spots. On the western end, the wall joined the cliff and dropped straight into the sea. To the south, the jumbled rocks sloped steeply into the strait, where the current roared like an avalanche. To the east, a fifty-foot cliff descended to the concrete platform which held the radar shack. From there the land spread out, rising on the left to the watchtower, sloping down on the right to the big house.