The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  It was then that the interruption came. They were both alarmed by it. The indistinct but harsh sounds of words, as if fired from rifles, rattled across the compound to their open door. Claire leaped up and, with Courtney, she ran outside.

  The sight that met their eyes was that of Sam Karpowicz, in a state of dishevelment, gesticulating wildly, pouring out indistinct words at Maud, who stood in her nightdress before the stoop of her hut next door, nodding and nodding.

  “Something’s wrong,” Courtney said to Claire, and the two rushed to find out what it was.

  They reached Sam and Maud, just as Maud, touching the botanist’s arm, had begun to speak. “Yes, it is terrible, Sam. We’ll have to act with dispatch. I would suggest that we consult Paoti—”

  “What is it?” Courtney interrupted. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Sam Karpowicz, shaking with distress, turned to Courtney. “It’s awful, Tom, awful. Somebody’s raided my darkroom, stolen at least a third of my printed photographs, negatives, reels of sixteen-millimeter movie film.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Positive,” Sam asserted, forcefully. “Positive,” he repeated. “When I left you a little while ago, I went into the darkroom to develop what I did tonight. I was too busy to notice anything peculiar right off. But I realized, as I worked, that there were funny gaps in the room. I’m very methodical. I pile this here, that there, and suddenly there were no piles. I began to check my layouts and reels against my written inventory—do you want to see?—a third of it gone. It must have happened either this afternoon or this evening.”

  Maud said, “We simply can’t figure out who would do a thing like that.”

  “That’s what beats me,” said Sam. “None of us on the team would have to steal film. I mean, here we are together. And the natives. What good would it do them?”

  Claire spoke for the first time. “Unless there’s some religious fanatic among the natives—the way there is in some societies who feels capturing images on paper is capturing the soul, or something like that. Could that be it?”

  “I doubt it, Claire,” said Maud. “I’ve found no tabu whatsoever against photography.”

  Courtney gripped Sam’s arm. “Sam, does anyone else know about this?”

  “I only discovered the robbery ten minutes ago. I dashed right in the house and woke up Estelle and Mary, to be sure they hadn’t been fooling around with the photographs. They were as mystified as I. Then I asked Mary if she’d seen anyone hanging around here today—you know—but she said she was gone most of the day. Earlier in the day, she said, Marc was about—”

  “When?” asked Claire sharply.

  “When?” said Sam Karpowicz with surprise. “Why, it must have been—it was after we went to Maud’s lunch—Mary stayed behind a while, and later went out with Nihau, and that was when she saw your husband.”

  Claire glanced at Courtney, then back at Sam. “That’s odd. He left early this morning to go on an exploration into the hills with some of the villagers. He said he wouldn’t be back until after midnight, maybe tomorrow, and now you say—?” Once more, she looked at Courtney. “Tom, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Courtney.

  “It would explain a lot of things.”

  “Yes,” said Courtney gravely. “We may be way off, but—”

  Maud had elbowed herself closer into the group. “What’s going on? If it concerns Marc—”

  “It might,” said Courtney. He consulted his watch. “Almost one o’clock. Nevertheless, I think I’d better go over and see Tehura.”

  “Let me go with you,” said Claire.

  Courtney frowned. “It could be embarrassing.”

  “I don’t care,” said Claire.

  Sam Karpowicz said, “What’s this got to do with the missing film?”

  “Maybe nothing,” said Courtney, “or maybe everything.” He scanned the faces of the other three. “If you all want to come along with me, it’s okay. But I’d prefer to see Tehura alone, first. I think I should do this before you go to Paoti.”

  Without reluctance, Maud Hayden relinquished leadership of the evening to Tom Courtney. She showed her worry as plainly as Sam showed his perplexity. Courtney and Sam had started toward the bridge and, out of some instinct, Maud linked her arm in Claire’s before following them.

  * * *

  In the dim light of Tehura’s hut, the three of them, Courtney, Maud Hayden, Sam Karpowicz, stood huddled across the room, their eyes fixed on the limp body of the native girl, broken across the stone fertility idol.

  Courtney it was who had come upon her first, sprawled unconscious, her pulse giving up its almost imperceptible beat. He had noted the blood behind her sightless eyeballs, and the blood caked at her eyes, mouth, and ears. He had hurried out and shouted his order to Claire, “Bring Harriet Bleaska, fast!” And when Claire had gone, he had beckoned Maud and Sam into Tehura’s room.

  Then they had waited.

  Once, Maud, in a strained voice, had addressed Courtney. “What is it, Tom? You know more than you’ve told me.”

  He had only shaken his head, and stared down at Tehura’s figure, remembering the pleasure of their old love, and the pain of this shocking sight, and none of them had spoken again.

  It seemed five eternities, but it was no more than five minutes, before they heard the approaching voices and footsteps. Harriet Bleaska, in a robe, carrying a small black medical valise, came in alone. She acknowledged the three of them, and, seeing Tehura’s limp body, fell to her knees beside her.

  “Better leave me with her for a little while,” she called over her shoulder.

  Tom guided Maud outside, and Sam was behind them. Beyond the door waited Claire and Moreturi, speaking to one another in undertones. When they looked up, Moreturi came up to Courtney.

  “Tom,” he said, “how is she?”

  “I think she’s alive, but—I really don’t know.”

  “I was coming into the village with the others, we had our catch of fish, when Mrs. Hayden and Miss Bleaska told me what happened. Could it be an accident?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Moreturi.”

  Claire had joined them. “Tom,” she said, “Marc was out in the hills this afternoon. He fished with Moreturi.”

  “It is true,” Moreturi said.

  Courtney scratched his head, trying to make something of this, and he suddenly asked, “Did he come back with you?”

  “No,” said Moreturi. “He ate some food with us, but when it was dark, he left in the middle of our meal.”

  “Did he speak of Tehura at all?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  Then they heard Harriet Bleaska’s voice, and as one they turned to the open doorway, which she filled. “Tom,” she had called out. Now she repeated it, “Tom.”

  He made a step toward her, when she said, “Tehura is dead. Less than a minute ago, it happened. There is nothing to be done.”

  They stood, all of them, like statues of grief in the semidarkness. The only movement, finally, was by Moreturi, who buried his face in his hands. The only sound, at last, was Maud Hayden’s, a kind of wail, and she said, “Poor child.”

  Harriet had emerged from the doorway toward Tom Courtney. “It was a fracture of the skull, a severe one,” she said. “It was too violent, the fall, to be an accident. Her head hit the stone idol, I suppose, and there was brain injury and a torrent of internal bleeding. You saw evidence of the blood. She was unconscious most of the time I think, but dying all the while. She kept trying to say something, even with her eyes closed. I couldn’t make it out, really. It might have been—just before she died—there was—” Harriet squinted at Claire, confused, and stopped.

  “There was what?” Courtney demanded to know.

  “I thought she said ‘Marc,’ ” Harriet said quickly. “I could be wrong.”

  “You are probably not wrong,” said Claire.

  “And then,” said H
arriet, “something I didn’t understand—maybe it’s Polynesian. First, she said, ‘ask’ and she said this twice, ‘Poma.‘What is Poma?”

  “A person, a girl who is Tehura’s friend,” said Courtney.

  Moreturi had composed himself, and was beside Courtney. “She said,‘Ask Poma’?”

  Harriet was troubled. “I think so.”

  Moreturi and Courtney exchanged some private look. Courtney nodded and Moreturi announced, “I go to Poma, to tell her our Tehura is dead, to ask Poma what she knows of this.”

  Moreturi sprinted off into the night.

  “There was one more thing,” Harriet was saying. “I should mention it now. The fracture is behind and above the base of the skull. But there is evidence of some lesser injury in front, on one side of her mouth and cheek. There is swelling and a bruise. It is as if she had been struck, not by an instrument, I don’t think, but struck. Maybe someone punched her, knocked her down, and that’s how she fell against the stone thing.”

  Courtney’s features revealed no emotion. “Thanks, Harriet.” He looked around. “I suppose someone had better notify Paoti. I want to wait here—”

  “Let me do it,” Harriet volunteered. “It will not be the first time. I want to go inside again, to straighten out, and after that, I’ll go to Paoti.”

  With Moreturi still absent, and Harriet back inside the hut doing whatever nurses did with the dead, those who remained outdoors were drawn more intimately together. There was smoking, and there was continued silence. Sam Karpowicz was completely bewildered. What had begun with a theft of his precious photographs and film had led to this, by what route he could not understand, and he was too sensitive to inquire for an explanation. Maud’s dumbness was less grief for the dead girl than for her son, who, it had been made clear, had had some connection with her. Still, she clung to a hidden hope that it was not so. Claire’s silence, like Courtney’s, was a mourning for Tehura, a flame so bright, so suddenly snuffed out. Yet, overshadowing all their private thoughts, was the wonderment. What had happened? What was behind the mystery?

  Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen, and then Moreturi materialized, now less sad than angry, out of the darkness.

  There were no questions, no interruptions, to delay the urgency of Moreturi’s words.

  “At first Poma, after she was awake, would say nothing about today. Then I told her that our Tehura was dead. She wept and she told the truth of it. I will make it brief, for there is much to do this night. Tehura came to Poma, to use her brother and his sailing vessel to leave this island. It was to be tonight and in the morning, at the far beach. Tehura pretended that she was going alone and Poma pretended to believe her. Last night, when Poma was with Tehura here, someone called on Tehura. They stayed outside. Poma was an evil spirit. She could not bear the secrecy. Through the back window, she peeked and listened. The caller was—was Mrs. Hayden’s husband—Dr. Marc Hayden.” Moreturi paused, then went on. “Dr. Hayden planned to come here tonight, and at midnight he and Tehura were to go to the far beach. There was mention also of one name foreign to Poma, one with the name ‘Garrity,’ who would be waiting for them in Tahiti.”

  Maud’s voice was hushed. “Marc took your pictures, Sam. He was going to Rex Garrity.”

  Courtney addressed his native friend. “Did Poma say more, Moreturi?”

  “Only that Marc was to be with Tehura tonight, and they were leaving after the midnight hour, to reach the beach when it was light. No more.”

  They had all forgotten Harriet Bleaska, but now she was with them, holding up an empty Scotch bottle. “I found this.”

  Courtney accepted it, and looked at Claire. She nodded her head in recognition. “Marc’s brand,” she said. “He was here.”

  Courtney turned to Moreturi. “From all the evidence, what has happened is fairly clear. Marc was here tonight with Tehura and he was drinking. He was taking Tehura with him, for whatever reasons he may have had. He was also taking what photographic evidences he could of the Sirens, and he and Garrity were going to sell out the island, exploit it, make a carnival of it. But something happened between Tehura and Marc tonight. Evidently, Marc struck her, and she fell against her stone idol, and died of the injuries. And it is a million to one Marc cleared out with his booty for his partner, Garrity, and is on his way to the beach right now.” He stared at Claire and Maud, but there was no softness in him. “I’m sorry. That’s the look of it.”

  “Tom, we must stop him.” It was Moreturi speaking.

  “Of course, we must. If he gets away, these islands are doomed.”

  “If he gets away,” said Moreturi, with no hint of apology for the fineness of his correction, “Tehura will not sleep.”

  The two men agreed that they must go in pursuit of Marc Hayden immediately. They ignored the others, as they quickly made their plan. Marc had several hours’ start on them. Yet he was familiar with only one path to the far beach, the long but safe way, made slower for him by the night. There was the steeper, more difficult short route, along the sea, the one the natives often used. Courtney and Moreturi decided to use it now. They were not certain that they could overtake Marc. They could only try.

  Without another word, they were gone.

  The others went down into the compound. Harriet left the party to bear the sad news to Chief Paoti. Sam Karpowicz separated from Maud and Claire, somewhat awkwardly, to go to his wife and daughter. Of the party, only Maud and Claire, the two Haydens, stood in the compound, before Maud’s hut, absently watching the torches along the stream.

  After a while, Claire said, “What if they don’t catch him?”

  Maud said, “All will be lost.”

  Claire said, “And if they do catch him?”

  Maud said, “All will be lost.”

  She was pale and old and sorry, as she turned and waddled toward her hut, forgetting to say good night. After Maud had closed the door behind her, Claire walked slowly to her own rooms to wait for morning.

  * * *

  The morning came to The Three Sirens gradually.

  The first of the new day appeared as if through a crack in the horizon. The last of the darkness challenged the expanding light, but halfheartedly, and retreated before the advancing gray shafts of dawn and fled entirely from the incandescent glow of the sun’s rim.

  The new day would be windless, and the heat would be scalding. In this elevated area, where the two paths to the far beach converged on a spacious boulder ridge, the coconut palms stood straight and calm. Far, far below the eroded cliff, the cobalt sea washed gently against the weathered crags.

  The two of them came up out of the sunken gorge, through the dense greenery, to the meeting of the paths, at the point where the paths merged into one crooked footway that led down to the beach. Moreturi’s skin was beaded with perspiration mixed with gray dust. Courtney’s soiled shirt was glued to his chest and spine, and his trousers flapped where thorns and bush had slashed them.

  They rested on the broad, barren boulder, panting like animals who had run all through the night, trying now to regulate their breathing and to regain their physical vigor.

  Finally, Moreturi turned, then strode backwards along the wider trail that rose from the plateau. Several times, he knelt to study the oft-trodden path. Courtney watched him with confidence. The villagers were uncanny at tracking, despite the fact that they were not a nomadic, game-hunting people. Their skill at tracking had been developed because it was one of their traditional sports. They had taught Courtney that the tracker’s art was in being able to observe something recently out of place. An overturned stone, a pebble even, its moist side turned up and not yet dried by the sun, would indicate feet had displaced it minutes or hours before.

  Courtney waited. At last, Moreturi, satisfied, joined his friend. “I think no one has walked here today,” Moreturi said.

  “You’re probably right, but we’d better make sure,” Courtney replied. “It’s only a half-hour down to the beach. Either the boat is stil
l there, or it’s gone off with him.”

  They had begun to move as one, in the direction of the beach, when suddenly Moreturi’s fingers closed tightly on Courtney’s shoulder and held him still. Moreturi lifted his flat hand, a gesture requesting silence, and he whispered, “Wait.” Quickly, he crouched, listening intently to the earth, and then, after interminable seconds, he straightened. “Something or someone comes,” he announced.

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. Very near.”

  Automatically, they parted company, Moreturi fading into the inner brush, Courtney finding a station beside a coconut palm, each a sentinel on one side of the trail, waiting and hoping for the one who would come around the bend from the grasslands and ascend the boulder.

  A minute passed, and then another, and suddenly, he came into full view.

  Courtney’s eyes narrowed. The approaching figure grew larger. There was the hump of a knapsack on his back, and a shabby bundle carried low, and it was evident that he was at the borderline of fatigue. Gone were the personable visage, now drawn, the trim physique, now cramped, the sartorial neatness, now disheveled.

  He did not see them at first, but followed the beaten trail from the plateau to the height of the boulder. Pausing once, to shift the agony of the knapsack’s load, he resumed his heavy tread across the high cliff, eyes to the turf, until he reached the meeting of the paths. For an instant, he hesitated, then started doggedly along the single path.

  Abruptly, he halted, and astonishment hit his slack mouth and jaw like a giant’s blow.

  He looked from left to right, first incredulously, then panic-stricken.

  He stood swaying in disbelief, as Courtney and Moreturi slowly came together several yards before him.

  He licked his lips, hypnotized by the apparition of them. “What are you doing here?” Marc Hayden’s voice croaked out of a dry throat, the voice of a man who had spoken to no one all the night and expected to speak to no one all the day.

  Courtney took a step toward him. “We came to get you, Marc,” he said. “We were waiting for you. The whole sordid mess is out. Tehura is dead.”