by Andrew Garve
“To whom?”
Dubois wriggled evasively. “That I don’t know, Dr. Garland.”
Garland looked at the Negro with cold hatred. The smarmy little swine! Of course he knew. So that was what all these smooth circumlocutions were leading up to—an accusation. How on earth could he have found out? Garland’s hands clenched in anger and the veins in his muscular forearms stood out. Desperately he struggled to control himself. The only hope was to bluff it out.
“It sounds to me a most unlikely story, Dubois. Unless you’ve got cast-iron evidence I’d advise you to be extremely careful what you say. There could hardly be a more serious charge.”
“That is precisely my own feeling,” said Dubois. The crisis seemed to be passing, and he felt more assured.
“Anyhow, you’d better tell me who your informant is.”
“I regret that I am unable to do that at the moment,” said Dubois. “For the time being, I am under an obligation to regard my informant’s name as confidential.”
Garland shrugged. “You can’t expect me to attach much weight to an anonymous witness. Frankly, I don’t believe a word of it. The firm would have got the contract without resorting to bribery—in fact, I don’t see whom they could have bribed. After all, I myself pushed the scheme through. I take it you’re not suggesting that I was bribed?”
Dubois looked deeply shocked. “Of course not, Dr. Garland. Indeed, no. It is true, as you say, that you were the inspiration of the scheme, the chief mainspring and the motivating force, but it was the Finance Committee which accepted your advice. Unfortunately, as I say, my informant was unable to state what person or persons received the bribe, but there seems to be no doubt that it was paid.”
“There’s plenty of doubt in my mind. It seems to me almost inconceivable. A reputable firm——”
“There have been similar cases in the history of the Colony,” said Dubois.
“Yes, but at least nothing of the sort has touched my department before. I’m sure it’ll prove quite untrue, but I’m glad you told me. I hope in any case that it will be possible to avoid a public scandal. The reputation of the department is at stake.”
“Only if an employee of the department is concerned,” said Dubois smoothly. “I realise, of course, that it may put you personally in a somewhat embarrassing position until the matter is fully explained—that is a thing that I deeply regret.” He added as an afterthought, “But I must also take my share of the blame.”
“You know, Dubois, I can’t possibly begin looking into this until I know who your informant was. What have I to go on?”
“It seemed to me,” said Dubois, “that as the bribe was probably given to someone outside the department, very likely to a member or members of the Finance Committee, the proper course would be to pass on all information to His Excellency, who would no doubt institute the necessary inquiries. I should be prepared to give the name of my informant to His Excellency.”
“That would mean a major scandal,” said Garland, “if your story is true.”
“The offence is very serious,” said Dubois. “One of the things I came to admire most during my valued years in England was the tradition of integrity which is the pride of the Civil Service. I should like to see the same tradition take root here. It is in the public interest that cases of corruption should be brought to light, and duty seems to require us to give all possible assistance to that end.” He fingered his tie complacently.
“You’ll have to let me be the judge as to our proper course of action,” said Garland sharply. “I expect you to keep your own counsel until I have reached a decision.”
“It has always been my privilege,” said Dubois with growing confidence, “to carry out your wishes in all matters relating to the department, but in this case I feel very strongly that my first duty is to my own people, whose confidence I think I possess, and must deserve.”
“You’re a civil servant, not a politician. As long as you’re in this department you’ll kindly do as you’re told, and keep that hustings stuff for your private conversations.”
“I have a duty,” Dubois repeated. “With all respect, if you feel unable to take this matter to His Excellency I shall consider myself obliged, with the very greatest regret, to do so myself.”
“I see.” Garland got up and went to the window, fighting down his panic. For the moment, he couldn’t think of any way out. He must play for time.
“Don’t think, Dubois,” he said, turning, “that I don’t agree with you on the main issue. Of course the thing must be investigated to the last detail, and perhaps you’re right about the means. Perhaps it will be advisable to pass the whole thing over to H.E. and let him deal with it. As you say, it’s only indirectly a departmental matter. Let me have the weekend to think it over, and we’ll discuss it again immediately after the holiday. If I come to any decision during the weekend, perhaps I’ll let you know.”
“Very good,” said Dubois. “I should naturally prefer to leave it in your hands.” He was suddenly aware that he and Garland were alone in the building, and was seized with an urgent desire to leave.
“I take it that I can rely upon you,” said Garland, “not to mention the matter to anyone until we’ve had another talk? The utmost discretion is necessary.”
“That is quite clear,” said Dubois. “Good day, Dr. Garland. May I wish you a pleasant holiday?”
“You may,” said Garland.
Chapter Nine
Garland sat on at his desk after Dubois had left him, deep in thought. With appalling clarity he saw that his life was in ruins.
His moment of fear had passed, and given way to a colder emotion—something like despair. No good telling himself that he had done what he had done deliberately and with a full knowledge of its nature and its possible consequences. That didn’t make the situation any better. The fact was that he had miscalculated the risk, and now he didn’t want to meet the bill.
He could remember vividly that evening at his home—months ago, now—when he and Rawlins had discussed the problem of the leprosarium over a glass or two of whisky. It had been such an academic discussion at first. Rawlins had been visiting Fontego to negotiate a contract for a housing estate, and to begin with he had shown only mild interest in the leprosarium and its problems. Garland had steered the conversation, had begun to talk about Tacri, had indicated that big changes were in the air. Finally, Rawlins had scented large profits from a development of Tacri.
For an hour their conversation had been free from any impropriety. Garland had made it clear that he personally favoured a leprosarium on the mainland. He had stressed the huge expenditure that would be involved if Tacri remained the site. He had intimated that the Fontegans might, in certain circumstances, be prepared to pay that price. The contractor’s appetite had been whetted. Finally, Rawlins had said with a deprecatory smirk, “Of course, if this were like some places I know we should have a contract for rebuilding Tacri in no time.” A rascal, Rawlins, in spite of his benevolent appearance.
The matter could so easily have ended there. But Garland had taken him up, very cautiously, feeling his way. “If this were like some places you know,” he had said, “what sort of consideration would you offer?”
Rawlins had given a little shrug. Something of the order of fifty thousand pounds, perhaps. For a rich contract, with plenty of expensive frills—the sort of contract Garland had in mind.
It had been so much more than Garland had expected. The key to a golden path through life. A stake big enough even for him. He remembered how circumspectly the conversation had developed, how wary each of them had been as they had probed each other’s minds. Garland had talked about the conservatism of the Finance Committee, the penury of Fontego, the jealous scrutiny of local politicians when they were not lining their own pockets. Rawlins had become glib on the general subject of bribery. He hadn’t called it bribery. He had found euphemisms—“commissions,” “recognition of services,” “legitimate rewards for expediti
ng necessary work.” Not a good practice, of course, in ordinary circumstances, and unthinkable in an efficient well-run country like England. But one had to adjust oneself to the accepted standards of the place one was in. “When in Rome, you know——”
Garland had listened with a sardonic smile. He had felt contempt for Rawlins—not because the man was moving crab-wise to an infamous arrangement, but because he seemed to imagine that Garland could be made to believe that black was grey. Still, what Rawlins thought hadn’t mattered. Step by step, each had committed himself equally until at last the common intention was plain and all that remained to be fixed were the details.
Garland had known precisely what he was doing, and why. His life had run into a dead end. Exasperation and frustration had made him reckless. Since he had married Celeste his values had been steadily eroded. He was tired of labouring on projects that never bore satisfying fruit, of endless ineffective drudgery with tiresome dolts and half-men. Dissatisfaction had eaten into his soul. At fifty-four, if he continued on his present course, he could see nothing to look forward to. Another five or ten wasted years, and then a pension that Celeste would think derisory. He might even lose Celeste. Whereas the alternative …
Fifty thousand pounds! A round attractive sum.
He had weighed the risk, and thought it reasonable. On his second meeting with the contractor the bargain had been struck. A substantial sum of money down, in cash, as a token of Rawlins’ good faith and an earnest of what was to come; the rest to be deposited by Rawlins himself in a safe place in Singapore, for Garland’s use, directly the contract was signed. He would take with him a specimen signature which Garland would provide—in an assumed name. Rawlins, it seemed, had made similar arrangements before; he knew the ropes, and anyway, no one was fussy in Singapore.
Garland had pondered the arrangement, aware of his own inexperience in all business matters. Rawlins had persuaded him. The deal would be a personal one, and would be executed with the utmost discretion. Neither man would ever dare to talk, for both were too deeply involved. And no one would ever suspect. Garland would be the last man in the world to come under suspicion of such behaviour—the stern unbending Garland! That, at least, was how it had seemed.
And yet someone had found out, and had told Dubois. It was inconceivable that Rawlins would have mentioned it to anybody. The second conversation had taken place in the open air, out of earshot. Someone must have overheard that first conversation. There was no other possible explanation. Celeste had been at the Country Club, dancing. Garland himself had made sure, at the appropriate moment, that no one was in the garden. Salacity and the other maids had been in their own part of the house. Johnson Johnson …
Of course! The mango tree! And who else would have thought of going to Dubois with the story?
Sudden fury possessed Garland. These black men! Apes! How he loathed them! It was an unbearable humiliation that he should be in their power. A cringing, half-educated underling and a pinhead of a banjo player! God!
The spasm passed. Anger wouldn’t dispose of them. Dubois held all the cards. Nothing would give the man greater pleasure than to go to the Governor. The informant would name Garland. Investigation would follow—investigation which might bring the financial transaction to light and which in any case would lay bare his recently increased personal expenditure. Garland could not doubt that investigation would mean ruin.
He could imagine the headlines in the newspapers, the smug gloating editorials, the merciless contempt of the white population, the disgust and incredulity of his friends. The shame of it all! The arrogant administrator humiliated, the sea-green incorruptible dragged down from his pinnacle!
And disgrace wouldn’t be the worst of it. There would be other things immeasurably harder to bear. Degradation. Garland felt rivulets of perspiration trickling down his spine. The day had gone by when an erring colonial servant could be discreetly spirited away to England and punished there. In these enlightened days, when every black politician was watching for a chance to complain of race favouritism and every white administration was straining itself to enforce equality before the law, there could be no question of slipping away. He would become the plaything of people whom he despised. He would be arrested by a black policeman and imprisoned with black men in the Colonial Jail. He would be sent for trial by a black magistrate and pronounced upon by a black jury—how they would love it! He would have to listen to the homily of a black judge, in the presence of his former friends. And he would have to serve his term with black men, eating with them, sleeping with them, working with them, in the sordid equality of convicted crime. He knew just what it would be like. He had once seen a white man in that jail.
No, that at least couldn’t be allowed to happen. If the worst came to the worst, he had a revolver at home. A bullet would be infinitely preferable.
All the same, suicide was the last resort. Perhaps it wouldn’t come to that. Systematically he considered the alternatives.
There was flight—but that would be ignominious and probably fruitless. And it would mean leaving Celeste—she would never stick by him. The thought flashed through his mind that he must buy off Dubois—if not with money, then with the offer of his own immediate retirement. He rejected it out of hand. The mere idea made him squirm. Not for anything in the world would he put himself in the position of crawling to Dubois. Not even for life itself. In any case, it wasn’t likely that Dubois would agree. He would like nothing better than to drag Garland down. It would please him personally, and would do him good politically. And there would still be the problem of that chattering half-wit, Johnson.
Garland rose heavily from the desk. All the savour had gone out of life—even what little there had been. He would have to talk to Celeste as though nothing had happened, and she read him so easily. He must get away as soon as possible, get to the boat and think it all out. On his own. Perhaps by the time Fiesta was over he would have thought of some solution.
And in case not, he would take his revolver with him.
Chapter Ten
At first light on the Wednesday morning, well ahead of the time laid down by law for the start of the holiday, the warm clear air of Fontego began to pulsate with a tantalising rhythmic beat. Fiesta had begun.
For a time, the notes and tones of separate instruments could be distinguished and located. Very soon, however, all identity was lost as innumerable streams of sound swelled and floated together into a mighty sea of noise. Life in Fontego had become a communal din and hubbub, a drumming syncopation which would end only with the final spasm of Bacchanalian revelry in forty hours’ time.
From now on, movement was everything—movement in time with the sensuous African beat. The whole town was as restless as a tray of jumping beans. It was as though a sudden spell had been cast on all, compelling continuous movement of every joint and muscle. People no longer stood or walked. If they were standing they jigged, and if they were walking they fell into a languorous shuffle. Black abdomens writhed sinuously, loins gave suggestive jerks, shoulders twitched, hips swayed, and buttocks shook. The women swung their breasts provocatively. Fingers fidgeted and toes tapped and heads nodded in tempo.
Already, at this early hour, the streets were filling up. There had been a time when only the poorest class, the backstreet dwellers, had taken part in these morning promenades on the first day, but now almost everyone was eager to get out of doors, and crack of dawn was like a starting gun. Along the main thoroughfare a confused and shapeless procession was beginning to move in the wake of a percussion band whose members, mostly in drab old clothes and some in rags and tatters, were beating out the time. One or two carried old oil drums, skilfully divided into segments like an orange, so that each segment gave out a different note when struck. Some were banging rusty motor-car brake drums, disused garbage pails, and empty tins picked up on the city dump. Some were hammering on dustbin lids and old saucepans, or extracting metallic notes from half-filled bottles beaten with spoons.
Mixed up with the band were the bearers of banners and flags, some with strange inscriptions like “Saviours of the East” and “Charlemagne’s Avengers.” It was flamboyance that mattered, not significance. Many of the revellers were in fantastic garb. There was a fat man dressed as a bride; there was a painted clown in a torn football jersey; there was a man who had somehow contrived to make a headpiece of an alligator’s jaws. There was a woman in a policeman’s jacket and a schoolboy’s cap, and a pseudo-priest in a white nightshirt with a black cross, and two men in flowing robes of scarlet and ochre with tawny artificial hair streaming down their backs. A group of shuffling men were pushing steel rods ahead of them along the road as though engaged in a demining operation. One individualist kept up a piercing whistle as he walked, pretending that the sound came from a long cane. Another man was juggling with two enormous dice, and yet a third, with no great precision, kept throwing a pole into the air and catching it.
Cars and buses mingled with the shuffling dancing mob in inextricable and satisfying confusion. What did it matter, since nobody wanted to go anywhere? And one could dance just as well inside a bus as outside. Loads of tight-packed Negresses in gaudy cotton frocks stood and jigged in the buses like pistons in a cylinder block, their bosoms bouncing and their smiles wide.
On the pavements there were still a few who took no part as yet. There were young men prospecting for a good “pick-up,” and young girls showing off their big hats and their new backless shoes from which pink heels protruded in startling contrast to their shiny black legs. There were small boys racing up and down, apparently impervious to the heat, anxious to miss nothing. Already the street vendors were doing a fine trade, selling wedges of crushed ice dipped in syrup, and the delicious water of fresh green coconuts whose tops they so dexterously sliced off with murderous-looking cutlasses.
