The Negress snickered.
“Poissard!” the officer scolded querulously. “How are you employed in Morne Noir, you and that ape of a son?”
“Toadstool, he’m stable boy, fine boy, know horses. Widow Gladys cook, wash, handle low plantation nigger, sometime midwife.”
“Sell the field hands evil charms and drugs, that is more the truth. Dieu! I am surprised M’sieu Proudfoot should name you in his will.”
“Him my good friend. Maybe sometime Ah owns Morne Noir.”
“Maybe sometime you go to the guillotine and have your head examined. Witch, do you have any idea who it was killed Dr. Sevestre?”
In the shadows that smelled of books, the billow in the chintz swaddlings slowly wheeled. The little tea-colored eyes were almost lost in folds of melting chocolate. “Ah thinks him, Nazzy, p’raps kill doctah man.”
Manfred, who had been propped against the shelves like something preserved for a war museum in alcohol, roused with a shout. The Iron Crosses tap-danced on his gusty chest. “How dare you, you pig of ink! How dare you say Captain von Murda slew that swine of a physician?”
“Ah hears, that’s all. Quarrels with that doctah, yessuh. Two days ago. Doctah, he say Massa Proudfoot been murdered by certain kind of bullet. Nazzy, he tell’m doctah keep him mouf shut or maybe he learn some more about bullets.”
“Shades of Friederich Wilhelm, but I will cut this female hippopotamus into barbecue!” The German’s eyes sizzled. Rushing forward with a bawl, he brought the square rum bottle crashing down on the polkadot turban. Glass exploded in a bright shower of amber fluid. But the Negress took the blow like a rock, threw up her arm and slapped that lavender birthmark with everything she had. Everything she had was plenty, too.
It was a nice sort of antic for that library scene at three in the morning after a funeral. Hurled backward by the blow, Manfred went tripping and crashing into the bench, sprawling across the body of the murdered doctor. Dead man and German tangled on the floor. Bedlam swept into the library. “Ki yi yi yi!” That was Ti Pedro laughing. A shout of mirth from the En-sign. Sir Duffin squealing applause. Gendarmes jumping with fixed bayonets and Lieutenant Narcisse yelling for order, and Manfred, on hands and knees, sober as ice and tiger-mad, and Dr. Sevestre watching with impersonal sightless concentration.
Pete put her face on my shoulder, while I stood like a cigar-store Indian, nerves going like a thousand mandolins. Then the German was back in line, the doctor back on his bench, and Narcisse assuring us the next one to move would be sabred in his tracks.
Rumpling the black feathers of his hair, Lieutenant Narcisse strutted like an angered game-cock. “How dare you outrage the dignity of this enquête? You German dog, bark out of turn once more and I will cut a bung-hole in the rum cask that you arc and let something more than rum out of you!”
Manfred swayed, steadied, balanced, clenching and unclenching his fists, jaw outthrust like a cobblestone, lips quivering. “That female mastadon would try to frame me, ja? I would not be surprised if the black monster had shot the doctor, herself.”
“But you, of course, are the soul of innocence. By the holy blood of St. Antoine! one would believe Haiti the stamping ground for the dregs of the white race, come here to pollute the black. Why did Germany chase you into exile for the mere matter of three wives, butchered one after the other in Berlin—”
“That is false,” Manfred snarled.
“The German agent at Port-au-Prince does not think so. And so you had words with Dr. Sevestre?”
“The swine tried to tell me the bullet in Herr Proudfoot’s skull had come from my gun. Aber, I was on my way to Gonaives when I heard of that murder. I spoke to the physician. I wanted the physician to understand.”
Lieutenant Narcisse turned to glance at the body on the bench; then scowled at Manfred. “So you subscribe to the poetic notion that the dead understand all things? A pretty sophistry, Captain, and one that may cost you your head. Observe.” He picked his tunic pocket. “Regard. Here is the bullet Dr. Sevestre removed from the head of M’sieu Proudfoot. It is a nickel-jacketed bullet of nine millimeter caliber. Dr. Sevestre said it had not penetrated deeply, that it must have been fired from a distance, and that it had been sent by a Luger automatic, such as the one you seem to be carrying.”
“There is more than one gun in Morne Noir,” Manfred snarled. “I was Herr Proudfoot’s bodyguard, and I ought to know. All these swine are armed.”
“They will not be when I am through with them, oui!”
“Are you trying to tell me the bullets in Sevestre are also from my gun?”
“I have not examined them as yet, but I am quite ready to believe it.”
“I did not kill him,” Manfred rasped, “because I was in that room down the hall, asleep. I did not even hear the shots.”
“Can you produce a witness to your peaceful slumbers?”
“I have no French blood in me; I always sleep alone!”
“And you” — Narcisse twisted his plump torso in the En-sign’s direction — ”who are named sixth in the will and declared as M’sieu Proudfoot’s business manager. Are you also the sleeping saint? But I have listened to rumors on the contrary. Par example, that you are a deserter from the United States Navy.”
The En-sign grinned, sucking the pipe and making little concave cones in his sunburnt cheeks. “You seem to of been doing a lot of snooping, Sherlock. I guess you’re right. I got sick of working for Uncle Sam, so I went to work for Uncle Eli.”
“I believe you already told me that on the day of M’sieu Proudfoot’s murder you were in a fishing boat off the coast.”
“I’m sorry I was alone an’ there weren’t no witnesses.”
“Where were you tonight when Dr. Sevestre was shot?”
The En-sign chuckled. “The gent’s room, an’ there weren’t no witnesses, either.”
Cornelius, next to be questioned, stammered information that he had gone down the hall to prepare a couch for Maître Tousellines. He had heard the two shots, bleated Cornelius, and thought it better to observe developments from under the bed, the haven from which the gendarmes had dredged him forthwith. Narcisse focused an eye on the little black lawyer.
“Bien, Tousellines, what have you to say? You did not retire, then, immediately after the funeral?”
The lawyer’s sausage lip trembled. “On returning from the burial I escorted the other guests to their appointed bed chambers; then went to M’sieu Proudfoot’s office under the stairs across the hall from the library. I was alone there, depositing certain documents, mainly the will, in my late client’s safe. I had just opened the safe, m’sieu the lieutenant, when I heard footsteps rapid down the stairs. They appeared to stop in the hall — then I — I heard the two shots. I locked the safe at once and darted from the office. I am desolated to tell this, but Ma’mselle Dale was, at that moment, running across the upper gallery, and she went, I believe, into m’sieu the American’s room.”
The whole rotten line-up turned to glare at Pete when this bit of information was divulged. As for me, I could have wrung that raisin-headed attorney’s neck for him, but Pete took it standing up. I never could have painted her eyes, the flash in them right then!
“I had gone down to the hall after a package I’d left on the settee,” she said evenly. “I was near the door when I heard the shots — they seemed to come from the library. But the library doors were closed and I couldn’t be sure. I ran straight upstairs to Mr. Cartershall’s room.”
The Haitian officer bowed. “Thank you. And was m’sieu in his room when you arrived there?”
“He was.”
“Certainly. And I am afraid I must ask you what it was you journeyed down the stairway to obtain. The package left in the hall?”
“A picture.”
“Ah, but then, ma’mselle, you saw no one quit the library?”
“Someone could have run out,” Pete said, “but I couldn’t have seen them from the upstairs gallery.”
“Ma’ms
elle, was M’sieu Proud foot your — eh — guardian?”
“He was at one time. I had received no word of him in a number of years.”
“You did not like your uncle?” the officer continued with a smirk.
“I never said that,” Pete countered. “He wasn’t a close relative. After he came to Haiti I never heard from, him until his lawyer came to me three days ago in New York.”
“One thing more, if you please. Did it not strike you as strange that he should list you last as a possible heir to this estate?”
“Look here!” Pete commanded. “I don’t care about the estate. I came here because it was a last request and I wanted to see what Haiti was like. Now I’m seeing, I don’t want any of it. I can’t help the police. I don’t know any of these people or — or anything. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
I said, “And that’s that. Miss Dale and I aren’t in this. Get us out of here.”
The officer’s black eyes settled on me, filmed opaque, calculated. “You are the fiancé of ma’mselle?”
“Yes — no — I’m with her as a friend. If you don’t give me a crack at that telephone so I can get the American con — ”
“I am sorry to incommode you, m’sieu,” the pudgy officer said with mock French politeness, “but for the information of the Law I first must inquire into your business.”
“I’m an artist,” I sneered.
My self-revelation brought a grunt of disdain belching from the German at my elbow. The En-sign rolled an Alice-blue eye at me and tittered, “One of those, blow me down!” Ambrose said, “Yoo-hoo!” and the Englishman dealt me an insulting ogle through his shiny monocle. Any one short of a professional garroter seemed to rate low in this Morne Noir ménage.
Narcisse did not seem impressed. “You paint the pictures?”
“Masterpieces,” I corrected savagely. “So what?”
“Exactly that, my friend. So what. So what were you doing on the gallery outside of your room while Dr. Sevestre lay dead on the lawn below?”
“I wasn’t out there when he was shot,” I snapped, bristling. I explained how I had heard the shooting and dashed through the shutters. From the glint in the Haitian’s eye I knew he did not believe me, and I went on to add that I didn’t care a damn. I broke down further to admit that I didn’t like the looks of anyone or anything in Morne Noir, Haiti, and the sooner he allowed me to telephone for money and help to get Miss Dale away from this coterie of murderers, the better.
“Maître Tousellines invited us down here. The authorities in Cap Haitien can check up for you. Now I want that telephone!”
“I will call the American representative, myself,” Lieutenant Narcisse advised me with a bow. He strutted from the room. He was gone from the library about two minutes — a hiatus during which the dark gendarmes held the line-up at bay, their rifles at port arms, and the air soured with breathing and the unstoppable undertone of those rada drurns — and then he was back in the doorway, his dignity out of shape, eyes lit with rage.
“The telephone is useless! It is the only telephone between here and Le Cap, and someone in this house has cut the wires!”
He smashed his sabre into the scabbard on his belt with such vehemence that the percussion started rain outside. Clang! and then the deluge. Water slashed the library shutters, gushing down the night with a cloudburst roar. The château filled with the sound. An unhappy clock over the library’s fireplace went ding-ding-ding-ding foolishly, and the old clock on the stairs, à la Longfellow, wheezed out a rusty “Four!”
Fury paled Lieutenant Nemo Narcisse to light bistre. Boots splayed, thumbs jammed in belt, medals dancing up and down his bosom, he gave us the last word.
“Attendez!” he roared. “Those of you who think there is no law in Haiti shall find out to the contrary. I am certain M’sieu Proudfoot, whom you buried tonight, was assassinated. I know that of Dr. Sevestre. Among you in this room stands the murderer! Any one of you could have crept to the front of the house to fire those shots into the doctor. Ma’mselle Dale! I am sorry, but I must examine your story at greater length. Nor am I satisfied with m’sieu the artist. As for the rest of you — by Louverture’s rotting bones! — I would as soon trust a jar of scorpions.”
His black eyes glittered along the line-up. He was tremendously enjoying this authority. “It is a matter for the Commandant of the Garde, and until he can be summoned here, the lot of you will remain in your rooms under my arrest. My men will relieve you of your weapons. Anyone attempting to leave Monte Noir will be shot!”
He stepped into the hall; returned with a sub-machine gun, a Thompson .45, hooked on his arm. “Do not make the mistake of believing the Garde d’Haiti a jest, mes amis. For myself, I was on that Haitian gendarmerie rifle team which, if you recall, tied France for second place in the 1924 Olympic Games. I should not like to add one of you to my shooting trophies. Take care, and stay in the house. No one can leave!”
Lieutenant Narcisse was robbed of the last word, after all. It was the En-sign who stood forward, chewing the words along the stem of his pipe. “Don’t worry, skipper. It’s in the Old Man’s will. They won’t any of ’em want to leave Morne Noir. Not for twenty-four hours, they won’t. Try an’ get ’em out. They won’t any of ’em want to leave in any way, shape or manner!”
But one of that little menagerie of heirs was going to leave before another hour was up. And the way, shape and manner of his leave-taking was no bon voyage departure, I can give you my word on that!
V.
One Down!
Houses, like people, are known by the company they keep; and that Morne Noire château was iniquitous, particularly in its upper hall. Once it had been a mansion of considerable pretension; French colonial and aristocratic. There had been elegance and pride. But it had taken to wine and knavery and bad companions. Damp rot had crawled through its foundations; it had learned to sneak. High living in the tropics had undermined its character until now, like a white man decadent, it had stooped to murder.
My nerves were just unhealthy enough to catch the mood of gangrened velvet portières and moldering tapestry, creaky panels, the sound of drainage gurgling on tiles. Wainscoting had scabbed, and woodwork darkened as if stained with iodine. Once mahogany, the doors to bedchambers opening off the mezzanine had been varnished black. They looked as if they hadn’t been opened for a long generation; and there’s something about closed doors.
All the upstairs doors overlooking the well of the hall were closed, like silence masking conspiracy. I’d feel easier knowing what lay behind them.
“Empty rooms,” Maître Tousellines assured as he trailed us up the stairs. “Only the three front rooms were furnished for occupancy.”
Since Pete and I were to be lodged side by side in two of the fronts, I wanted to know who inhabited the third, the one neighboring mine on the right.
“That? But that was the bedchamber of M’sieu Proudfoot. Since his death it has remained closed.” The little darkey paused at Pete’s door, hesitated nervously, wrinkled, stammered us a good-night. “I am most unhappy about this affair misérable,” he quavered apologetically. “It was desolating that I should be forced to speak of ma’mselle running on the staircase.”
“Never mind about that,” Pete said. “How soon can you get us out of here?”
“I am sure it can be arranged when — ”
I interrupted, “Now listen, Tousellines, you’re responsible for Miss Dale’s being here. As a lawyer you can start pulling strings and arranging passage for New York toot sweet.”
He blinked unhappily. “Had I foreseen what was to occur tonight I should never have urged your coming, jamais de la vie! Although I was M’sieu Proudfoot’s legal adviser, I was not entirely familiar with his — this household. There were some matters in which I did not entertain his confidence. Matters — eh — somewhat the disturbing.”
Something was eating him. His eyes roamed. I leaned over the balcony rail and scouted the lower hall; turned
back at him.
“What’s on your mind?” I prodded, lighting a cigarette to pretend confidence under stress. “Let’s have it.”
Whatever it was, the clump of military boots down below altered his intention of speaking. He swallowed solemnly. “I but wish to assure you, m’sieu, I will aid you in any way I can. I think you may enjoy complete confidence in Lieutenant Narcisse. I am encouraged as to his ability. As former interpreter and guide for the United States Marine Corps when it was stationed here, as graduate of the gendarmerie school at Hinche, he has proved himself an officer the most competent. He is starting a gendarme at once for Cap Haitien with a message for your consular agents. And so bon soir, m’sieu.”
As we found out later, the gendarme never reached Cap Haitien with his message for our consular agents (because in Haiti you set off to do one thing and end up doing something else), but I heard the clatter of a horse Paul Revereing off through the night and rain, and felt better, knowing the rider had started, anyway. Maître Tousellines traveled down the staircase; and a black policeman tramped up halfway to stand sentinel on the landing.
I steered Pete into my room, switched on the lights, and for the second time that night we were closeted in privacy. One thing I wanted, and I dug it out of my Gladstone wish a silent oath of relief. The old Luger pistol was pretty shabby, but it was something between us and the night, and there were shells in the magazine.
“Huh! They frisked those others and collared enough guns from their rooms to arm the peace conference at Geneva. Did you see that sawed-off shotgun they took from Ambrose’s duffle bag? Thank God they didn’t discover this.”
Pete watched me as I snapped off the safety.
“Cart, you don’t think — ”
“I’m through thinking,” I said, one eye on the door. “All I know is, this is the dirtiest batch of week-end guests I’ve ever seen, and there’s a doctor in the house. Here. Take it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t need it. The place is teeming with police, and I’m going to bed. If I don’t get some sleep pretty soon” — her forehead puckered as if she might cry — “I’ll pass out.”
Murder On the Way! Page 6
