No Mask for Murder

by Andrew Garve

  By midday all the streets were so jammed with sweating ecstatic humanity that movement was hardly possible any more, except vertically. The respectable roads in the better-class suburbs were hardly less crowded. Earlier generations of middle-class revellers would have concealed their identity with masks even at this stage, but now caution was thrown away. On a day when nothing was barred and reki was flowing, immodesty could quickly become competitive and every advance in flirtatious impropriety win new applause.

  Normal eating hours meant nothing to anyone. The programme was continuous. As the sun rose higher the crowds were joined by fresh holiday-makers with a greater variety of costumes, so that soon the open spaces were brilliant with fancy dress. Popular uniforms were parodied. There were policemen with huge whistles and tailors with shears and top-hatted doctors with long thermometers. There were cowboys, and men in white steel helmets with U. S. insignia painted on them, and Chinamen in pigtails riding lions with rope manes; and clowns and devils and dragons with long tails, and minstrels with banjos and flour-whitened faces; and all of them were in continuous movement. Parties of young men and girls were beginning to go round from house to house on the outskirts, dancing and singing, each with its own noisy band and its collection of ludicrous costumes.

  Indoors, in the calypso huts, great crowds were tapping out the monotonous savage rhythm to which all were tuned, while professionals who had been practising for weeks in readiness for this occasion tried out their new songs and scored points off each other in sarcastic duels of calypso war.

  In the afternoon the better-off and more inhibited section of society contributed its quota of colour and gaiety. Limousines, driven by black chauffeurs who jigged in their seats, and gaudy trucks on which topical tableaux had been arranged led a parade round the outskirts of the city. Beautiful women, brown and white and olive, displayed the gorgeous clothes they had ordered for the occasion from Paris and New York, proudly escorted by wealthy men. The jigging hoi polloi looked on, mildly derisive, enjoying the polite restrained spectacle but knowing that downtown that night the masks would be on and that many of the respectable wealthy would be joining avidly in an orgy of reki, women, and calypso.

  When the swift night fell and electric lights blazed out on the swaying, yelling, and exultant black mass, the pulse of the rhythm seemed to beat more strongly, and excitement rose. The day was for colour, and the night for reki and debauch. Policemen became alert for trouble-makers and night robbers, though the noise and confusion and reki-fired emotionalism were the perfect cloak for crime, and the dark hours would take their toll of property and life. There was little the police could do except keep their batons at the ready. It was understood that, as far as possible, they should stay out of things and let licence have its head. All night long the dancing would go on and the drinking and the heated copulation on the warm grass, and the drumming of the steel, and the blaring orchestras and radios. By morning the first wave would have spent itself and there would be a brief respite. But not for long. Dawn would bring the second wave into the littered streets, with still brighter costumes, still greater energy and zest, until the long carousal ended with the midnight stroke and the orgy was over.

  Chapter Eleven

  As the first Fiesta crowds began to flock into the streets on that Wednesday morning, Garland set out for Darwin Bay. He was driving a rather dilapidated station wagon, for Celeste always liked to have the car when she was left alone. His rods and tackle were stowed in the back, though it seemed unlikely that he would use them. He wasn’t in the mood for fishing. He felt such a depression as he had never known before.

  If he could have drawn a little warmth and comfort from Celeste, that might have helped. Last night he had wanted to tell her everything; probably he would have told her if she had shown the slightest interest in him. But she had been as detached as she always was. He didn’t believe that she could ever have been in love with him, even when she had appeared so during their early meetings. She certainly wasn’t now. Nobody could have been more coolly indifferent about a husband’s departure than she had been last night. He found himself speculating how she would spend the holiday—what she would find to do. He always wondered that when he was away from her, but when he asked her afterwards she was always off-hand and vague.

  He felt that he had really very little to live for. In all the circumstances, logic pointed remorselessly to self-destruction. It would, of course, be easy to find excuses for weakness, to defer action, to cling desperately and at all costs to life, because simply to breathe was something—particularly easy in the soft enervating climate of Fontego, where mere existence was a sensual pleasure. If Celeste had been fond of him, and this hideous danger had not been hanging over him, his morning’s drive could have been a heavenly thing. The sky was blue and the sweet air was alive with the song of tropical birds. The Bay would be a delight; the sea would be perfect for swimming and sailing. What an enchanting holiday he and Celeste could have had together—if everything had been different! If he had had a carefree mind, and Celeste had wanted him to love her. Instead, here he was driving alone with thoughts as bitter as aloes, his only comfort the pressure of a revolver butt against his thigh.

  He drove slowly and mechanically. The traffic on the road was increasing. Whole families were crowding in for the sight-seeing, on foot and on the backs of donkeys and jammed into crawling bullock carts. In the villages that he passed through, local merry-making had begun, so that the streets were becoming congested with dancing groups. The foolish animal ecstasy on the faces of these grinning Negroes somehow increased his sense of loneliness. He despised them too much to envy them, but at least they were glad to be alive, and would still be alive to-morrow.

  Presently he drew up at the sentry box which guarded the entrance to the Base, for the road to Darwin ran through the middle of the leased territory. There were no restrictions on through traffic by day or night, though the number of each car was noted as it entered and left the area, to make sure no unauthorised person remained there. Garland took his pass from the sentry and drove slowly on through the beautifully-kept grounds. Driving through the Base always made him feel more dissatisfied with the rest of Fontego—it was so clean and orderly, with fine living quarters and superb road surfaces and well-kept tennis courts and swimming pools and clubs. It threw into vivid relief the unkempt squalor of the Colony.

  He gave up his pass at the exit, and almost at once caught the gleam of the Bay behind a copse of flaming immortelles. Down on the beach all was deserted. There were three yachts at anchor, including his own, but of life there was no sign. Even the fisherman who was supposed to keep an eye on his own yacht, the Papeete, had gone into town with all his brood. No scene could have been more peaceful or more lovely. A faint wind blew from the sea—just enough to stir the graceful fronds of the coconut palms which ringed the semicircle of golden sand. Garland parked the station wagon under a tree and walked to the hut where the dinghy was kept, trying as best he could to ward off the venomous sand flies with flailing movements of his arms. The sooner he got on the water the better. Even though he might be going to put a bullet in his brain, sand flies were irritating.

  He unlocked the shed and heaved the ancient dinghy down the beach. The last time he had been here, he had had Johnson Johnson with him to do the chores. He ploughed heavily back through the sand and collected the hamper that Salacity had packed for him. By the time he was ready to push off, his shirt was soaked with sweat, but on the water the air was pleasantly cool. The Papeete was only fifty yards from the shore. Behind her the horns of the Bay curved and almost met, forming a perfect anchorage. Outside the surf was beating.

  Aboard ship, Garland methodically stowed his things. Then he stripped, and slipped over the side into the milk-warm sea. The gently heaving water caressed his naked body like a lover. He lay for a while on his back, floating and basking. Then he swam round the ship with powerful strokes, enjoying his strength.

  Presently he cl
imbed back into the yacht and let the sun dry him. He poured himself an iced lime-squash from the vacuum flask. It was delicious. Everything external to him was delicious this morning. His problems had already begun to take on an air of unreality. They couldn’t be as serious as he had supposed. The revolver on the bunk looked melodramatic and absurd. He had been idiotic to bring it. He had got things out of proportion. After all, he was strong and vigorous—yes, and wealthy, if he could keep his freedom. Life still had a great deal to offer him. He wasn’t afraid of death, though it did occur to him that it would be ghastly to bungle the job in a lonely place like this. But for a man like him, suicide was cowardly and silly—the resort of the weakling. There must be another way out.

  He lay on the bunk and tried to forget the magic of the tranquil sea and the scented air. Deliberately, he tried to get back into the mood of those moments after Dubois had left him. It was easier than he had expected. Logic reasserted itself. If Dubois told what he knew, disgrace was inescapable. And he would tell.

  Garland’s eye dwelt upon the revolver. Unless, of course …

  Murder! That was an alternative. The path of logic forked. Suicide or murder.

  Put that way, was there any real choice? Murder wasn’t a thing to contemplate lightly, but then most people weren’t forced by events into such desperate decisions. Garland wondered how he would feel afterwards, if he killed Dubois. He decided that he would feel very little—except, perhaps, satisfaction. And how that one simple act would change the whole prospect! His self-respect would be preserved, his career would be saved, and with money to burn he might even find Celeste less cold. How could he hesitate?

  There was, of course, Johnson Johnson to think of. The little banjo player would have to be silenced too. Two murders! Garland dwelt darkly on the double enterprise. Anyhow, Dubois came first. He was infinitely the more dangerous, with his stored up resentments and his scheming mind. And the danger was immediate. Directly after the holiday he would want to act. If he was to be killed, it was vital that the deed should be done before the end of Fiesta.

  Garland’s depression lifted. The prospect of action always stimulated him. If he were careful, it should be fairly safe to kill Dubois. The apparent absence of motive would be a great safeguard. Garland would be the last person to be suspected of such a murder, provided he made no blunders. The chief problem would be to get away from the scene of the murder unobserved. A white man could not easily pass in a crowd in Fontega. Whatever movements he made might well be noticed. Not so much, of course, during Fiesta—people would be much too busy with their pleasures.

  Garland wondered what Dubois would be doing with himself during Fiesta. Not dancing in the streets, that was certain. Probably sitting at home with a departmental report, feeling superior! He lived, Garland knew, in a small detached house in one of the middle-class suburbs, with a man to look after him. The man would almost certainly be out celebrating.

  Garland considered the advisability of calling on Dubois at his home and killing him there. It was the most direct way, but the risk of being seen and identified was great. That suburb wasn’t one that men like Garland frequented. It was mainly a Negro district. If a white man were seen entering the house the circle of suspects would be dangerously narrowed. In a building, too, traces might be left.

  The ideal thing would be to get Dubois out of the house and mixing with the crowds. Say to-morrow evening, at the climax of Fiesta, when bedlam would break loose and the town would be so full of noise and drunkenness that the killing of a man in the dark would pass unnoticed. Would it be possible to get Dubois out? Garland thought it would. He could telephone—he could say he had come to a decision about Dubois’ disclosure, and stress the urgency of a meeting, and name a rendezvous. Dubois would respond automatically. He might think it was odd, but he would certainly come.

  No, that wouldn’t do. The killing might pass unnoticed, but someone might see them together before the killing, and that would be fatal. Garland was too well known. If only he could wear some disguise.

  A disguise! Why, of course—what could be simpler? The thing to do was to dress up in some outlandish costume and wear a mask, as thousands of other people would be doing. Dubois would be astounded, of course, knowing Garland, but he would be dead before he could draw any conclusions.

  Garland’s blood stirred with excitement. This was going to be far better than putting a bullet in his own head. He would drive in to-morrow at dusk, ring up Dubois, and make the appointment, dispatch him and return to the boat as though nothing had happened. What about a weapon? Clearly not a revolver. Poison would be simpler to administer if they were having a drink somewhere—but poison was too difficult for the ordinary man to get hold of. It would be safer, perhaps, to use a knife and make the murder seem like the result of some native brawl. Garland knew he would have no difficulty in driving a knife with precision to a man’s heart, if the man was unsuspecting. He had the very thing in the tool chest—a short double-edged knife in a leather scabbard that he used for various jobs around the ship and occasionally for hacking out the pulp of coconuts. He could sharpen that until it would go into flesh as easily as into a coconut. And he could wear the scabbard at his belt, under his clothes. He went to the chest and took out the knife. It was a little rusty but would soon polish up. He would have to hold the handle in a handkerchief or something, if he was going to leave it in the body. Afterwards, on his way back to the Bay, he would throw the scabbard into one of the muddy rivers.

  The disguise was a problem. It must be something that he could fix up here on the boat with the materials available to him. It wouldn’t matter how fantastic it was as long as there was nothing about it to suggest a masquerading white man. He would have to do something about darkening his hands and face and neck.

  He looked thoughtfully round the boat. There was very little that he could dress up in. A few old clothes, but it wouldn’t be safe to use them. He really needed something long and enveloping, like a robe. His eye fell on a thin coarse blanket, off-white—a covering that was sometimes necessary in the cool hour before the dawn. He should be able to make something of that. He tried wrapping it round himself like a toga. It was the right size, and would admirably conceal the knife. Somewhere he had a leather belt. He searched in the lockers and found it. When he had strapped it round his waist and examined the effect, he decided that he looked rather like a Moslem priest. Perhaps he could develop that motif. A towel was the obvious thing for a headdress. He set to work to make a turban. It was some time before he could get the knack of tucking the ends under so that the turban remained tight. But finally he was satisfied. His appearance was bizarre enough, but the disguise was excellent, and at Fiesta anything would pass.

  The mask presented greater difficulties. If only he had thought of all this before, he could have made some preparations. Still, there was safety in spontaneity. The only thing he could see that would be at all suitable for a mask was an old piece of sailcloth. He made a rough pencil sketch on the canvas and cut out the mask. The slits of the eye-holes must be just wide enough to see through comfortably, but no wider. A small hole would be needed for his nose; otherwise the mask wouldn’t lie against his face. For some time he experimented and adjusted. Finally, he attached four lengths of string and tried the effect. The mask looked amateurish, but wasn’t improvisation the keynote of Fiesta? There was no doubt that it completely concealed his identity, and that was all that mattered. He took the scissors, cut the remainder of the sailcloth into a dozen pieces, and stuffed them back into the locker.

  Once more he went over the plan in his mind. There would be an element of luck—all depended on his finding Dubois at home when he telephoned. But if that hurdle were passed, the rest should be straightforward. A suitable rendezvous—some night spot with large crowds; a carefully chosen moment; a swift blow—and all would be done. He would mingle with the throng, pick up the car, and be out of town within the hour. There would be risks, of course, but not undue risk
s, considering the stake. Garland felt eager to put the plan to the test. Even if he failed he would be no worse off than now. He could still use the revolver on himself. He had nothing to lose.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was seven o’clock on the second evening of Fiesta, and dusk had fallen. Ezekiel MacPhearson Dubois was sitting out on his balcony overlooking the brightly lit street. With conscious superiority he was refraining from taking an active part in the celebrations, though it was quite impossible not to participate passively. Through every open door and window loudspeakers which had been left switched on blared their calypsoes, while every few minutes a group of rowdy revellers would come dancing and singing their way past the house. Dubois was thus able to sniff the bouquet of the heady drink which he felt a man in his position ought not to touch. He must set an example. Nevertheless, the rhythm beat in his blood, and his neatly shod feet tapped upon the concrete.

  Dubois was hoping for a telephone call. His mind had not been at peace since he had left Dr. Garland at the office, and he would be thankful when the whole matter was cleared up. He felt that temporarily he had lost the initiative. Dr. Garland was a bold and intelligent man, capable of swift action. He might be devising some countermove. Not that Dubois could imagine anything effective, but he nevertheless felt unhappy about the situation.

  His chief worry, as he realised upon reflection, was that the evidence against Garland so far in his possession wasn’t really very strong. If it had been, the wise course would have been to take it without further delay to the Colonial Secretary or the Governor. But, whatever might turn up later, at the moment there was nothing to go on but the unsupported word of that feckless fellow, Johnson Johnson. In the circumstances, Dubois decided, his correct and cautious approach to Dr. Garland had undoubtedly been sensible. The question now was, what would Dr. Garland do?