by Cave, Hugh
What am I here for, he wondered.
He went along to the church and into it, and up the aisle through pale shafts of moonlight to the rail. He stood there frowning at the altar. His church. Or did it belong to that fellow Dufour had talked about, the one who claimed to own the land? In any case the people it was intended for had been driven out by the Bishop and the structure had become a monument to man's stupidity, a mausoleum in which love and understanding lay buried.
He turned to look at the empty benches, recalling the people who had occupied them that day. Catus Laroche, now shut up in his house or hounfor planning some dark and terrible vengeance. Micheline, an outcast probably destined to end up a prostitute in the capital. Edith, disillusioned and unhappy. Alma Lemke, burdened with a beast of a husband. All the others.
The drums went on and on.
What was it he had said to Catus about God's being in church even though invisible? "We believe it." Very well, he believed. There were points of doctrine he disputed, being unable to recognize their validity or see that they served any useful purpose, but he believed in a creator of all things, and the name "God" was as good as any other for a mystery no man could understand. But did God know or care what was happening on Ile du Vent?
The universe was a master plan, certainly. Stars, moons, planets, all whirling about through space in perfect order—it was no accident. But with even the most sympathetic interest in the welfare of its inhabitants, could God be aware of all that happened? Of the movements of a handful of people on one small planet? One tiny fragment of one small planet? Wasn't it more likely the Master Mind concerned itself only with long-range results?
An architect didn't look at every nail, brick, grain of sand and speck of cement that went into the building of a house. He paid no attention to nails bent or lost, sand scattered, bricks broken, cement stepped into the ground. He stopped by every little while to see how the house was progressing. The house was what mattered.
Dear God, some of your people are in trouble here on Ile du Vent. Have you noticed?
He waited for a sign. The Bible was full of such signs, wasn't it? An angel had appeared to Mary. Zacharias had seen one in the temple. The disciples had been addressed by strange figures in white at the ascension. God himself had appeared to Moses and spoken to Jesus.
The answer to every problem is in the Bible if you'll look for it, boy.
He saw only the Bishop gesticulating and heard only the drums. When he got back to the mission the drums were still throbbing and St. Juste was pacing up and down in front of the rectory door with a cigarette.
"The racket woke me up, Mr. Clinton. I looked in to see if you were asleep." He peered anxiously at Barry's face. "You haven't been up there to Laroche's place?"
"No. I didn't think it wise."
"Stay away from there, please. With those drums pounding away, the whole village will be on edge. There's no telling what might happen."
"Are they having a ceremony, do you think?"
"Mr. Clinton, you know as much about vodun as I do. Probably a whole lot more. You know what those drums mean, if you'll think about it. They mean Catus Laroche has made up his mind what's to be done about you and is calling on his vodun gods to help him do it."
"And we can expect trouble of some sort in the morning? Is that what you think?"
"When the drums stop."
The drums did not stop that night. The sound was a deepening flood that flowed down from the village to inundate the mission clearing and lap against the walls of the rectory. Barry could not sleep through it. He was able to achieve only moments of half sleep in which his mind saw big Louis Cesar hunched over a drumhead and the sweat-burnished figure of Catus Laroche whirling in a lantern-lit dimness surrounded by hypnotized eyes.
When he rose at dawn the drums were still pounding. The sound throbbed in his head while he washed and caused his hand to shake while he shaved. At breakfast it was an invisible sheet of glass between him and St. Juste, interfering with their attempts to make conversation. There was no escaping it.
He tried to ignore it. He was no believer in the fanciful notion that a continued beating of drums could drive a man out of his mind. Perhaps in a week or a month it might have some effect. He might want to scream out against it by then, as he would at any other annoyance. But this was terrifying now only because of what it stood for. "When it stops," St. Juste had said. He kept listening for it to stop, interrupting what he was doing to hear if it had.
It didn't.
Edith did not come. He had not expected her. When he did have visitors, just before noon, he was almost pleased to see them, though one of the pair was the strutting little magistrate, Felix Dufour, with a battered briefcase under his arm, and the other had every appearance of being a St. Joseph lawyer.
Barry seated them in the office, retired behind his desk and took a moment to look them over. The stranger was a man of thirty or so, small, wearing a wrinkled gray business suit and gleaming black shoes. The shoes must have been polished within the past few minutes if the pair had walked up from Petit Trou. To complete his costume the fellow wore a white shirt and black tie, and held in his hands a dark felt hat that had seen better days. He looked like a funeral director. His name was Henri LeGrand.
"M'sieu LeGrand," Felix said, happily smiling, "is a lawyer from the capital. He represents my constituent, Antoine Constant."
"I take you've come about the land transfer."
LeGrand bobbed his head. "Precisely, Mr. Clinton."
"Why haven't you brought Constant, then?"
"Antoine is indisposed," Felix lisped.
"Is he? Then you've had your walk for nothing, believe me. There's no point in our discussing the matter without him. If it's his land the church is built on, I intend to hear the claim from his own lips."
Felix looked annoyed. "But M'sieu LeGrand is here to speak for him, mon Père!"
"Not to me, he isn't. Until M'sieu LeGrand walked in here just now, I'd never set eyes on him. For all I know he may be an Anse Ange fisherman dressed up to fool me."
The lawyer sat bolt upright, bristling. His hand shot to the inner pocket of his jacket and came out clutching a wallet. From it he extracted a card. "My credentials, Mr. Clinton!"
Barry glanced at the card and shrugged. "Very well, you're a lawyer. I still have no assurance that you represent Antoine Constant."
"I have told you he does!" Felix sputtered.
"You've told me? I bought a mule on your word once. I've learned my lesson."
Anger made Dufour's face twitch. I'm probably a fool to be doing this, Barry told himself, but, damn it, I want to. Let them fume. If they're going to get the church away from me they'll fight for it. In the pleasure of open conflict he had forgotten the drums for a few minutes. He listened for them now while Dufour and the lawyer put their heads together, whispering.
The sound was still in the air.
Dufour stood up. "Since you insist on it, I will go for Antoine. M'sieu LeGrand will wait here."
"If I may," LeGrand said coldly.
"Suit yourself. Ordinarily this is a clinic, but today I have no patients." Barry watched Dufour hand the battered briefcase to the lawyer and stride from the office. After a moment, he said, "Would you like a drink, m'sieu?"
The fellow seemed startled. "A drink? But yes, please!"
Barry poured him one. Wondering where St. Juste had got to, he put his head out the door to look. The Couronne man was sitting in the kitchen doorway, playing with Lucy's little dog.
Barry leaned against the desk. "Have you known Felix Dufour very long, M'sieu LeGrand?"
The lawyer shrugged. "I met him this morning."
"Oh?"
"I am here at the request of the deputy in Anse Ange. Him I know well."
"I see. You can't possibly be aware, then, that Dufour is a thief and a liar."
LeGrand lifted his eyebrows. "Is he indeed?"
"Very much so. I hadn't been on this island a week bef
ore I learned he was overtaxing the market women and putting the profits into his pocket."
The lawyer shrugged. "A politician's trick."
"He also sold me a mule that he knew might kill someone—and it did."
"He only sold the mule, Mr. Clinton. You bought it."
"Do you honestly think he has got himself involved in this land business simply to help what he calls a constituent?"
"That is what he says."
"Don't you believe it. Dufour wouldn't bend a finger to help his own mother. What he's up to I don't know, but you can be sure he'll profit from it somehow. If he brings it off. Tell me something. Have you met Antoine Constant?"
LeGrand nodded. "This morning."
"Is he actually the complainant in this affair, or is Dufour simply using him?"
"He assured me, Mr. Clinton, that he never signed the land transfer. That if his signature appears on that transfer it was forged. That he was cheated."
Barry gave up trying to decide whether the man was honest or not. "Well," he said, "we'll see."
They had a queer notion of honesty, these people, he told himself sadly. It was one of the things he would have to work on if he were ever to teach them a better way of life. You weren't dishonest if you cheated a man; you were simply more clever than your unhappy victim. The victim might be your own brother. If he were, he very likely would boast of your cleverness to his friends, thinking it wonderful that he had a relative so smart. It was a philosophy that tainted the entire social structure, from the wealthiest elite in the capital to the poorest barefoot peasant. Be smart. Be shrewd. Take advantage of every opportunity, no matter who suffered. You wouldn't be criticised for it. You'd be admired.
What a way to live. And, of course, he was powerless to change it. But he had hoped to be able to show a few of the people on Ile du Vent how foolish it was, and how costly in the long run for all of them. He had hoped to show them how it undermined all their relationships and made each man an island. He had hoped to do that.
IN HALF AN HOUR Dufour returned with Antoine. The latter had evidently not anticipated having to make a business call. He was unwashed and only half dressed. His feet, Barry noticed with a grimace, had not been washed in days.
Barry kept him standing before the desk and questioned him. "Are you the former owner of the land the church now stands on?"
"Oui, mon Père. I still own it."
"Where did you get it?"
"In payment of a debt, mon Père."
"When?"
"When I was magistrate here."
"Meaning you caught some poor family in a squeeze and forced them to give it up to you?"
"No, mon Père."
"All right, you stole it legally then. But now you say it was stolen from you by Père Mitchell."
"Oui, mon Père."
"If that's the case, why have you waited so long to make your claim?"
Antoine shrugged. "I didn't need the land before."
"But now you do? Why?"
"I am poor."
"When you decided to get the land back, why didn't you come to me? Why did you go to Dufour?"
"He is the magistrate."
"You did go to him? He didn't come to you?"
"I went to him."
"Who told you to?"
"No one, mon Père."
"It wasn't M'sieu Lemke?"
"M'sieu Lemke?" Antoine seemed genuinely bewildered. "Or Pradon Beliard?"
The bewilderment fled. The man gave a start and sent a frightened glance at Dufour.
Touché, Barry thought, and had trouble hiding his triumph. It was Beliard. But Lemke may have directed the operation.
He leaned forward, holding the fellow motionless with his gaze. "If you do get your land back, Constant, how much will you have to pay Beliard?"
Felix Dufour thrust himself forward. "Mon Père, this is outrageous! This man knows Beliard, yes, but Beliard has nothing to do with the case!"
"Answer my question, Constant. How much?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
Antoine shook his head.
But you're sweating now, Barry thought. Your mouth is twitching. You're scared.
"You say you never signed the land-transfer papers, Constant. If you didn't, who did?"
"I don't know."
"Are you accusing Père Mitchell of forging your name? You are, of course, even if you're not aware of it. Do you know what it means to make such a charge?"
Antoine looked at the magistrate again.
"He knows," Dufour said impatiently. "I have explained everything to him."
"Have you, though?" Barry frowned at the man before him. "Let me tell you what it means, Constant, because I think you were talked into this for someone else's benefit, and you're going to be a much sadder and wiser man if you go through with it. If you accuse Père Mitchell of having forged your name to a legal document, you're going to have to prove it in court, in the capital. You won't have Felix Dufour to speak for you there. You'll have to sit on a witness stand and answer questions on your own. Not the simple questions I'm asking you, either, but hard ones shouted by a shrewd lawyer determined to find out if you're lying. And if you're lying he will find out, don't ever doubt it. I'm not a lawyer, Constant. I only think you're lying. But the lawyer hired by the church to defend Père Mitchell will be the smartest, cleverest man to be found in all St. Joseph. When he gets through with you there won't be a lie left in you. Do you understand?"
Antoine Constant blinked at him, and then turned to frown at the magistrate and LeGrand. He was confused. This was something to think about, oui. Had he made a mistake, maybe, in listening to the quick tongue of that dandy, Beliard?
He could taste fear in his mouth. They hadn't warned him it would be like this. There would be nothing to it, they had said. Nothing at all. As easy as catching a pintard after the piti-mi bait was soaked in clairin. The Father would be shaking in his shoes at the very thought of losing his precious church.
Only the Father wasn't shaking. This was something he hadn't foreseen. The Father was threatening him when it ought to be the other way round. There was going to be trouble here, oui. This man behind the desk was a bad one to tangle with. He had been a fool, maybe, to let Beliard and Dufour talk him into this.
He licked his lips and waited for Barry to speak.
"Well," Barry said, "haven't you anything to say?"
Felix Dufour pushed forward. "What is there to say, mon Père? This man, even though he was once the magistrate here, is only a poor peasant. He has been wronged. We ask only that the wrong be righted."
"Dufour, if you interrupt once more I'll throw you out of here."
"But—"
"Be quiet! Now then, Constant, have you anything to say? After all, it's your future these two are gambling with, not their own. Speak up.
Antoine Constant gnawed at his lower lip. What he would give to be out of this! What an idiot he had been. Felix was right: he was only a peasant, and a stupid one at that. The affairs of clever men were not those of fools. The goats and the sheep spoke different tongues. But it was too late, too late. If he backed down now, after letting the charge be made and causing M'sieu LeGrand to come all the way from the capital, the rage of Dufour and Beliard would be unbearable. LeGrand would probably send him to prison.
He sadly shook his head. "I have nothing to say, mon Père."
Barry leaned toward him. "Are you sure? This is your last chance. Unless you drop this now, you'll have to go through with it to the bitter end."
"I—I have nothing to say."
With a sigh Barry turned to the lawyer. "All right, let's see your evidence."
"Do you have the transfer papers, Mr. Clinton?"
"I have them." Barry unlocked a drawer of the desk and took out a small metal box, one left behind by Leander Mitchell. With a smaller key he unlocked the box.
LeGrand opened the battered briefcase and laid a half-dozen mildewed notebooks on the desk. "These are th
e records kept by Constant when he was magistrate. With your permission we will compare the signatures."
Barry was not surprised by what he saw. Dufour, after all, had prepared him for the revelation. He looked long and hard at the signature on the transfer papers, then at those in the notebooks. Then he raised his head and frowned at Antoine Constant.
"Come here."
Antoine nervously approached the desk. Barry thrust a pen at him. "Write your name. On this piece of paper here."
With great care Antoine did so.
Barry examined the signature and felt his hands clench on the edge of the desk. It matched those in the notebooks. It was nothing like the one on the transfer papers.
He straightened and looked at his three callers.
"All right, gentlemen. On the evidence you appear to have a case. We'll see now if it will stand up in court. I bid you good day."
When they had gone he sank back onto his chair. He had lost his church and knew it.
The drums were still throbbing.
25
ST. JUSTE WAS CURIOUS AT LUNCH. "What's Dufour up to now, Mr. Clinton?" he asked. "He looked pretty pleased with himself when he walked out of here."
"There's something I haven't told you, Clement."
"Oh?"
"I thought it was too fantastic to be worth telling. But apparently it isn't. Those two with Felix were a lawyer from the capital and an islander named Antoine Constant who claims to own the land the church stands on."
St. Juste all but choked on a mouthful of chicken. "Mr. Clinton! Are you serious?"
"I wish I weren't."
"He claims to own the land?"
"It's quite a story." Barry was not reluctant to tell it. The telling served to clarify the details in his own mind. As he went over it he was aware that Lucy had stopped moving about the dining room and was standing quite still with her hands on the back of a chair, gazing at him with an expression of incredulity. He was, of course, speaking Creole. It was easier for St. Juste than English.
"So there you have it," he concluded with a shake of his head. "Somewhere in the act there's a trick, of course. Mr. Mitchell never forged that man's name. But what the trick is I can't imagine. I do know why they're doing this. When I tossed the name Pradon Beliard at Constant he jumped as though I'd jabbed him with a needle. It's fairly obvious, I think, that Pradon has been my old man of the sea right along."
