Color Him Dead

by Charles Runyon

  “Is it?” Ian folded his hands and regarded Drew thoughtfully. “You needn’t be afraid to tell me if you’re wanted. Several of my men are, and they’re the ones I trust.”

  “Sorry,” said Drew. “I came down here to recuperate from an accident. My money ran out, so …” He spread his hands.

  Ian sipped his drink and regarded Drew over the rim of his glass. “Name?”

  “Seright, William.”

  Ian nodded. “All right. You’ll come with me to my estate back in the bush. There’s little to do at the moment, but I’ll want you when we have trouble with the blacks.”

  Drew felt a stab of dismay. He wanted no part of the bush as long as Edith remained on the island. He was debating how to refuse when Ian suddenly raised his eyes toward the staircase. Drew parted the leaves of a potted rubber plant and looked up at Edith.

  She treaded down the stairs like a queen descending from her throne, holding her head erect and steady. A blue ankle-length dressing gown dimly revealed the twin white column of her legs. Drew guessed that she had spent the last quarter hour in communion with her dressing table mirror; the only signs of last night’s drinking were the faintly shadowed perimeters around her eyes. It occurred to him that perhaps she had not assumed the copper hair as a disguise after all, but rather to conceal a touch of gray in her midnight hair.

  She reached the floor and walked to the corner bar without glancing toward the terrace. Ian stood up. “Edith, it’s a bit early for that.”

  She looked at him and raised her brows. “It is? And what do you have in your glass? Lemonade?”

  She bent over and set out a bowl of ice and a bottle of White Horse. Ian strode toward the bar. “Edith, I’m going back to the estate shortly. I don’t intend to leave you drinking.”

  She dropped an ice cube in a glass and uncapped the bottle. “Why not? I’ll be in the firm hands of the faithful Doxie.”

  “Doxie’s gone to see Doc Ainslee. He had an accident.”

  “Really? What did he lose this time?”

  Doxie was obviously of no interest to her; she was intent on filling her glass with whisky.

  “Edith, you’ll be stupefied by noon.”

  Drew couldn’t see Ian’s face, but his tone was mild and paternal. What happened next came without warning. Edith raised her glass, preparing her mouth to receive it. Suddenly her hand was empty, her mouth foolishly agape, her white throat dewed with moisture. The glass shattered on the floor.

  For a moment she stood frozen, a dark stain spreading over her gown. Then she spoke in a low venomous tone:

  “Goddamn you. Go back to your black whores and leave me alone—”

  “That’s enough.”

  The words had a hard chill edge, like a frosted knife. A silence fell, more dramatic than the shattering of glass. Edith seemed hunched and shrunken, her shoulders slumped forward. Drew got the feeling that this was one of many such scenes; that Ian had conditioned her by blows until now only the words made her cringe. She plucked at her gown and spoke in a sad and plaintive tone: “I’m … wet, Ian.”

  “You’d better go change.”

  She seemed to be a robot controlled by his voice. In a slow, sleep-walker’s movement she untied the gown and slid it off her shoulders.

  “Not here. I have a guest.”

  “Oh?” She drew up the gown and clutched it at her throat. She peered around Ian, toward Drew. “A … guest?”

  Drew released the plant and leaned back in his chair.

  “An artist,” said Ian. “He wants to paint here on the island.”

  “But you’re not going to let him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “How many men have you thrown off the island?”

  Ian chuckled. “This one is different. You’ll see.”

  Drew’s face burned. He had seen the plantocracy perform this way with the blacks, discussing them in their presence as though they didn’t exist. He felt a vague resentment at being treated as a black. And here was Edith, standing over him, looking down with a puzzled expression. Drew stood up, feeling foolish; what the hell was he supposed to do, stand there with his head down and shuffle his damn feet?

  “Oh—!” cried Edith.

  Drew looked into her round, horrified eyes. His stomach turned over. Hell, he thought, not here, not now, with her husband watching and the fishermen just offshore. She wouldn’t remember me from the rock, but with the shave and the haircut I look just a little bit like that old Drew Simmons, maybe enough for a woman who knew me as well as she did …

  Ian’s voice broke in. “You know him, Edith?”

  Drew looked hard into Edith’s white, frozen face; he looked into her eyes, and it seemed he could see beyond them, into dark misty pools of unspeakable horror. She was like a bird hypnotized by a snake.

  Drew took a desperate gamble. “We met day before yesterday, remember? I was spearfishing out by Whale Rock and you came out in the dinghy. I didn’t know who you were—”

  “Is that true, Edith?”

  “Oh …” With a faint groan, she took her eyes from Drew and looked at Ian. “What did you say?”

  “Did you meet this man at Whale Rock?”

  “I … yes. Yes.” Her positive tone was belied by the dazed bewilderment on her face.

  “What happened?”

  “What happened?” she repeated it like a student stalling for time. “What happened.”

  Drew’s throat hurt; he was trying with his own will to force the right words from her mouth. “We hardly exchanged ten words. We—”

  “Quiet. She’ll tell me.” Ian’s tone was edged with frost. “Can’t you remember?”

  “I remember. He … thought I was somebody else. Somebody he had known.” Her voice shook with eagerness and the words spilled over each other. “Some woman he had known. I … convinced him that I wasn’t and … he swam away.”

  “Where was Doxie?”

  “On the watchtower.”

  “Why didn’t he report it to me?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Ian frowned. “I think I know. He wouldn’t want to report failure. All right, Edith, go upstairs.”

  “Are you going to let him stay?”

  “Upstairs, Edith.”

  Edith turned and walked slowly away. Halfway up the stairs she turned, her fingers white on the iron railing. “Send him away, Ian. Please!”

  Then she ran quickly up and into the room. The door slammed behind her.

  “My wife seems afraid of you, Seright. Why?”

  Drew shrugged. “My face, maybe. It’s a little out of shape.”

  Ian sat down, chewing his lower lip. “Mmm, it’s possible. She’s highly sensitive to appearance, nervous around people who are hurt or handicapped.” His eyes flicked over the crutch, then away. “I think, Seright, I’ll leave you here.”

  Drew felt a surge of triumph, but kept his face passive. It wouldn’t do to appear eager; it might even help to show a little reluctance. “You mean … Doxie’s job?”

  Ian nodded. “My wife had a complete nervous breakdown not long ago. She needs constant companionship, another white person about. Blacks are no good for her. She forgets how to act like a human being.”

  “Why not hire a woman?”

  “I have. She drives them off. Or gets them on her side.”

  “On her side?”

  “One of her delusions is that she desires other men. Women are … sympathetic to this sort of thing, enter into conspiracies with her. You would not. I suggest that you deal directly with any men who happen to get involved. Warn them off first, and if they prove persistent … you know….”

  “Yes, but suppose she gets a … delusion that she desires me?”

  The question seemed to take Ian by surprise. His eyes flew wide, then a laugh burst out. It developed into a fit of coughing which made his eyes stream and his face turn the color of a ripe watermelon. When it was over he wiped his eyes and fixed Drew with a severe look:
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  “It’s part of your job to see that she doesn’t. Considering the … physical arrangements between men and woman, it’s obvious that she could achieve nothing without your active cooperation. The servants here are paid by me and report to me. I would know if anything happened, and I would see that you lost … much more than a job. You understand?” Drew nodded, and Ian settled back in his chair. “To her you will be an artist under my patronage. This will make it possible for you to move about the island, keeping her in sight. Be impersonal toward her, preoccupied with your work. If she leaves the island, find some excuse to go with her. If she protests, you will have to reveal your real purpose. She’ll hate you for it, but it won’t hurt your ability to do your job.”

  There were other details. Drew could live in Doxie’s old room at the end of the servants’ quarters. Thinking of privacy, Drew said he’d prefer to live in the radar shack, and Ian agreed to it. His stores he could get from the cook. Liquor was locked up during Ian’s absence, but if Drew wanted a drink, he could get the key from the cook.

  Captain Leo returned and Ian was gone before it occurred to Drew to ask about his salary. Then he remembered that he wouldn’t be around long enough to draw a month’s pay.

  For an hour Drew sat on the terrace sketching palm trees. A swish of skirts made him turn just as a girl in black uniform disappeared behind Edith’s door. Drew was waiting when she came down the stairs two minutes later, a serving tray apparently untouched in her hands. She was a thin, sexless girl of about fifteen with a gray, unhealthy complexion. Drew asked when the madame would come down, and the girl answered in a low whisper without looking up: “I don’t know, ‘sieur.”

  Drew followed her out the rear door to the low wooden building which contained the cookshack and servants’ quarters. A thin, gray-haired woman stood at a blackened pot and morosely ladled a mixture of rice, fish-heads and breadfruit. Like the girl, she had a complexion like old bread dough and a body composed of sharp angles. Two men waited at a rough wooden table; one was the old manservant, now wearing only a sleeveless undershirt. He stood up and bowed slightly toward Drew. The other must have been Chaka’s brother. He had the same brute physique, the same rope-like muscles twisting around his shoulders and down his arms, the same flat nose and tiny ears set into the muscle of his neck.

  “He cannot hear, ‘sieur,“ said the old man. He jabbed a thin elbow into the giant’s arm; the giant looked up, then rose and made a rumbling sound in his throat. Drew saw that he was even bigger than Chaka. One eye, set deeply beneath a shelf of bone, flickered with a dim animal intelligence; the other eye was a white, sightless blank. Drew reflected that Barrington’s breeding experiment was not an unqualified success; this hulk was little better than an imbecile.

  “Is he Chaka’s brother?”

  The old man nodded. “This one is called Ti-cock. I am Charles. The cook is Meline, and her daughter is Lena.”

  All four stood watching Drew, waiting for him to speak. Drew wondered why their deference seemed to have a touch of awe. Was it because of what he had done to Doxie? He had a feeling their shell of formality would resist any attempts at friendship; he would do well to trust none of them.

  He nodded at the group, left the cookhouse and followed the stone walk past the servants’ quarters. The low wooden shed had been divided into five compartments. Four contained only a metal cot, a bare light bulb, and a few nails to hold some meager garments. The fifth room was larger, with a mirror and a peeling bureau. It must have belonged to Doxie. Beyond the shed Drew found himself in a garden lush with bougainvillea, ferns, lemon trees, palms, and a pigeon cote. He stumbled over a crumbled, blackened stone foundation and decided he’d found the ruins of the harem. Above the garden the slope was covered by concrete, channeled so that rain water ran into a vast stone cistern covered with a tile roof. He walked down toward the beach north of the villa. Behind a rotting wooden jetty stood a windowless brick building secured by a rust-encrusted padlock. He yanked on the hasp and the screws pulled easily from the rotting wooden door. Inside he found evidence of the island’s happier days: a 16-foot Fiberglas boat with steering controls in front, a 40-h.p. Evinrude motor; two pairs of swimfins, and a speargun with a double grip and a six-foot spear. On the wall hung an oxygen tank which gave a hollow, empty sound when he thumped it. There was also a face mask, a belt with weights attached, and an air regulator. They seemed hardly used, as though they had been bought on impulse and quickly forgotten.

  His heart leaped when he saw the water-skis leaning up against the corner. There were five skis in all—one set of wide, blunt beginner’s skis with double runners; a pair of thin, tapered trick skis, and a single slalom ski with two foot-holes. Drew could almost see Edith with thighs ridged and wet, riding a carpet of spray across Lake Tarara. He remembered how she would suddenly drop the tow-line and glide into a shallow cove, and how he would double back and tie up the boat, then follow her trail into the seclusion of the woods. He would find her drying herself in a patch of sunlight, her swimsuit spread over a fallen branch. Those had been golden afternoons of mutual discovery, when his eyes had been dimmed by a mist of passion. He had been drunk on the wine of a new affair and refused to believe that the wine would turn bitter and grate on his teeth….

  “Stir up happy memories, Doc had said. Drew might as well begin now. Ti-cock helped him get the boat into the water and attach the motor. Drew took the boat out for a trial spin, then returned, attached the nylon ski-rope and loaded the skies. He walked upstairs and knocked on her door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Seright, the painter. If you’d care to water-ski—”

  “Go away. I’m sleeping.”

  He shrugged and walked down the stairs. She would have to be approached slowly, with kindness, like a wild mare. He found the cookshack quiet except for buzzing flies. A sound of snoring came from the servants’ quarters. He made a cup of coffee and was drinking it on the patio when she came downstairs, dressed in her red halter and white shorts. She walked with a slow, careful concentration he knew so well. She must have had a private bottle stashed in her room.

  He stood up as she approached his table. “Join me in a cup of—?”

  Slap! Her palm stung his cheek. “That’s for peeping at me on the rock.”

  “Hey!”

  Slap! Her left hand struck his other cheek. “And that’s so you’ll remember your place. I heard my husband giving you your instructions.” Red spots appeared high on her cheeks. “Don’t worry about me getting delusions that I desire you. I’ll manage to control myself.”

  She turned to walk back to the stairs, twin roundnesses moving beneath her white shorts. He touched his cheek and smiled; this was the Edith he had known, fire and ashes. When she had bowed before Ian, he had felt maggots crawling in his soul.

  “Mrs. Barrington?” he called. She walked on and he tried again. “Look, I was broke and I needed a job. Say the word and I’ll quit. Maybe you’d rather have Captain Leo.”

  She took another step, then stopped and turned slowly. “I … don’t know how to ski.”

  “Maybe you’ve just forgotten.”

  She looked down and twisted her ring. Here again was a new Edith; on the surface she had the same arrogance as ever, but face her with a situation involving her past—

  “Well …” she said finally in a small voice. “I’ll get my suit on.”

  EIGHT

  She rose in the water clutching the tow rope with both hands, her legs widespread and knees stiff. Drew opened the throttle slowly and she began to ride the surface of the sea. The tight-lipped wariness faded from her face. By the time he reached mid-channel she was leaping back and forth across the swell of the wake. At Petty-lay he made a tight turn, and she swung wide at the whip-end, her hair blowing straight back from her head. He steered back across the channel to the island, circled past the little beach, felt the rope go slack, and pulled in to tie up at the jetty. He found her lying on the beach with her hands behind her
head. Her green bikini provided slightly more concealment than a wristwatch; an inch less width on the bra would have exposed a nipple, and the bottom was two triangles of cloth laced at the side.

  He dropped beside her, smelling the salt-tang of flesh, mingled with a sharp, high odor. White-woman smell, he thought.

  “You were good,” he said. “Ever ski at Lake Tarara?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Indiana.”

  “I’ve never been there … have I?”

  He looked up quickly; she had raised to her elbows and was looking at him narrowly.

  “How would I know?”

  “How did you know I could ski?”

  “I found the skis. Your husband didn’t seem like the type.”

  She was still looking at him. He kept his face impassive, daring her to remember.

  “On the rock …” She paused to wet her lower lip. “You thought I was someone you’d known before. You still think so?”

  “No, Edith. You’re a different woman.” As he said it, he realized it was only partly a lie. “A different woman entirely.”

  She sighed and lay back. Drew could hear the swish of the maid’s broom on the terrace, and it made him edgy. They were too near the house. He touched a forefinger to Edith’s shoulder and watched a white spot fade slowly. “Let’s get out of the sun.”

  She walked beside him as he labored through the loose sand south of the villa. It was a somber, dreary beach. Light disappeared into the black sand beneath their feet, while overhead brooded the manchineels with their dead-gray bark and shiny green leaves. Small segmented fruits carpeted the ground and cut his bare feet like jagged cinders.

  “Don’t look up,” said Edith. “The sap can blind you.”

  Drew fought a perverse urge to stare upward. “Is that what happened to Ti-cock?”

  “His eye? No, Ian used a whip on him, a long time ago.”

  Drew felt a creeping coldness in his chest. Ian was not a man to play games with. They emerged from beneath the manchineels, where the beach curved inward toward a banyan so old that its dangling roots had fused into a single twelve-foot trunk. Edith sat down and leaned back against it. Drew pulled a pack of Anchors from his shirt pocket, lit two, and gave her one.