* * * *
Beneath the outrigger canoe suspended from the ceiling in the Shangri-La's dining room they breakfasted on guava juice, croissants, crullers, and fragrant slices of pineapple, papaya, and the lime green grapefruit of the South Pacific.
Afterward, over coffee, they sat in the breeze of an open French window, gazing contentedly at a reef-rimmed lagoon as blue and brilliant as a swimming pool, at fork-tailed seabirds floating above the cliffs on the warm wind, at the fantastically shaped, impossibly green mountains of Moorea twelve miles away over the water.
Aside from the soft plash of the ocean, the only sounds were the slap-slap of thong sandals from the waitress, a broad-beamed middle-aged Tahitian matron with a pair of harlequin glasses on a lanyard around her neck, a gardenia in her black hair, and her stocky body swathed in a flowered pareu, the all-purpose, wraparound Tahitian garment somewhere between a sarong and a muumuu.
There were only a few other people breakfasting in the big room: a crabby French couple having their morning squabble and two Japanese men who gazed about them in discouragement, as if convinced that they were in the wrong hotel.
The Shangri-La, romantic the night before, looked a bit grubby in the bright morning light, a little timeworn, the arms of the rattan furniture greasy with use, the cushions on them sunken and stained, the straw mats on the floor ground-down and shabby. Despite the benefits of exclusive arrangements with the party-loving tour groups of Chile, it seemed clear that the Shangri-La had seen better days.
"What I think,” John said, disposing of yet another croissant, “is that we ought to drop in on the local police this morning."
Gideon looked at him. “We?"
"Maybe Nick's not giving us a runaround about exhuming Brian, maybe it's just red tape like he says. Maybe we can help clear it up."
"Maybe,” Gideon said without conviction.
"Besides, wouldn't you like to have a look at the police report on Brian before you get started? I mean, we're not doing anything anyway, we're just waiting around."
"I suppose so, but what are we supposed to do, walk in and ask?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Why not? Because we're a couple of nosy foreigners who are here to do some Monday-morning quarterbacking on a case that's closed as far as they're concerned, and cops can get a little funny about that, if you haven't noticed. We're here at Nick's request, and he's the one who should be dealing with the police, John. Or Therese. But not us; we don't have any status here."
"Yeah, that's true,” John said. He went to the buffet table, came back with a sugar-encrusted cruller, tore off a third of it, shoved it into his mouth, and gestured with the remainder. “But what the hell, I'm an FBI agent, aren't I? I'm visiting a foreign country, aren't I? Why shouldn't I pay a courtesy call on my fellow law enforcement officers?"
"No reason at all. Fine, you have my blessing. I'll see you when you get back."
John laughed. “No dice, these guys speak French. I need a translator."
Gideon drank the last of his coffee and sighed. “All right, let's go.” He stood up reluctantly. “But I'm not going to like this."
John got out of his chair, finishing the last of the cruller and licking sugar from his fingers. “You're gonna love it. Trust me."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 11
* * * *
"Good day,” Gideon began in his slow, careful French. “We are Americans. My friend is a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—"
"And does your friend possess identification?” asked the civilian clerk without discernible interest.
Gideon translated the request for John, who slid his card over the marble counter. The clerk, less than awestruck, nodded magisterially at Gideon to continue.
"My friend would like to examine a death report concerning an accident on Raiatea a few weeks ago—"
The clerk frowned. “There has been no notification from the FBI concerning this."
"No, my friend is here in a personal capacity, about a family matter, you see. He hopes that—"
The clerk's expression had hardened. “Such files are open only to official inspection. I am sorry.” He began to turn away.
"I understand, but in this case an exhumation request has already been filed, and we thought—"
"For that you must see the department of health, not the police."
"I understand,” Gideon said again, “but my friend has reason to think that a murder may have been committed. We assumed the police would be interested."
The clerk was finally impressed. “I think you had better talk to the commandant,” he said stiffly. “Wait here, please.” He went to a telephone at the back of the room.
"What'd he say?” John asked.
"He said we'd better talk to the commandant."
"Fine.” John turned an accusing eye on him. “Hey, what was all that 'mon ami, mon ami' stuff? You're not taking any responsibility for this, are you? You're putting everything on my shoulders, aren't you?"
Gideon laughed. “You better believe it."
They had arrived a few minutes earlier at the gleaming white headquarters of the Gendarmerie Nationale de Polynesie-Francaise, commandingly situated at the head of the avenue Bruat, Papeete's most beautiful, most Frenchified boulevard. A broad (by Tahitian standards) thoroughfare, it was lined with one-and two-story government offices and screened by leafy, arching trees that had already been mature when Gauguin had sipped absinthe in their shade before wearing out his welcome in the better French social circles of Papeete.
The gendarmerie itself was the largest of the buildings, a handsome, two-story structure conspicuously flying the French tricolor, surrounded by its own tropically landscaped grounds, and encircled by a wall of iron grillwork and white stone. Notwithstanding its corrugated tin roof, it made an imposing presence.
Inside as well as outside. The lobby was immaculate and austere, with nothing on the walls but a simple, marble plaque inscribed in gold:
Hommage aux gendarmes
Victims du devoir
"What's devoir?” John asked.
"Duty,” Gideon said as the clerk returned to the counter. John nodded approvingly at the plaque.
"The commandant can see you now,” the clerk told them.
He pressed a buzzer to let them through a gate in the counter, then motioned them to precede him through a door labeled Brigade des Recherches.
John's brow wrinkled. “Research? Who needs research?"
"It means investigations,” Gideon told him.
Once beyond public scrutiny, the gendarmerie was notably less grand. The upper floor was a warren of cramped offices, most of them shared, and a small, untidy common room—an expanded passageway, really—with a couple of chipped plastic tables and an enormous, illuminated Coke machine that took up half the space. They had to weave their way through four or five sprawling, blue-uniformed gendarmes taking a break at the tables, smoking, drinking coffee, and gossiping.
The decor was basic police station, with battered, shabby furniture and floors covered with linoleum that had been nothing much to begin with and that had now seen more than its allotted span of years. The dull-green walls were almost hidden by charts, posters, and curling scraps of paper stuck on with pushpins, and were scuffed and blackened where shoes or hands or oily heads or the backs of chairs had come into repeated contact with them.
Other than the posted messages in French, the only feature that would tell an observer that this was not a police station in New York or London was an abundance of fresh, fragrant flowers—jasmine, frangipani, gardenia—that lay on desks and file cabinets. While the smells of police stations in London and New York were frequently memorable, they were unlikely to include frangipani.
Like those of the other offices, the commandant's door was open, revealing a room only a little larger than the rest, about twelve feet by twelve, but comprising a small enclave of refinement. There were no posters, charts, or tacked
-up notes. Two antique lengths of brown-and-red tapa cloth and a pair of richly carved, wooden canoe paddles hung on the unmarred, peach-colored walls. A bank of four tall windows looked down the tree-canopied length of avenue Bruat to the bustling harbor five blocks away. The heavy desk was oiled teak, with nothing on the sheet of glass that covered it but a single letter, a marble pen-holder, a small gold pendulum clock protected by a bell jar, and, in one corner, a mass of hibiscus and gardenia arranged on a banana-leaf base. In all, it was the office of a man of taste, serene and inviting.
Its occupant was a small, dapper man in his fifties who was going rapidly over the letter with his forefinger. He nodded to himself, signed with three or four elegant, looping strokes, placed the sheet in a tray on the credenza behind him, and removed his reading glasses to examine the two newcomers with eyes of a startlingly clear blue, penetrating and intelligent. His hair, thick and gray, was brushed softly back in a way that made the most of the distinguished-looking wings of white at his temples.
"I am Colonel Bertaud,” he said in French-accented English. “Sit."
John and Gideon sat.
He extended a forefinger and leveled it at the clerk. “Go, Salvat."
Salvat went.
"Your names?” His voice was surprisingly beautiful, as mellow and vibrant as a plucked guitar string, with a hint of irony in the inflection, or perhaps it was in his expression or even his posture.
They gave him their names.
"Now, then. What is this about a murder?"
"Well, of course we don't know that there's been one,” Gideon said, treading carefully. Bertaud was being pleasant enough, but there was something about him that suggested that kid gloves were a good idea.
John, being John, had no such compunctions. “It's about a man named Brian Scott, Colonel, an American—"
"Yes, I know who Brian Scott was, Mr. Lau. I am familiar with the investigation into his death. I am also familiar with the finding: not homicide, but an accidental death due to a fall."
"Yeah, I know that. But who did the investigation? Some guy out on Raiatea, right? Let's face it—"
The skin around Colonel Bertaud's eyes twitched once. He rose from his desk, walked to the window, and stood looking down on the boulevard, his hands clasped behind him. He was shorter than he had appeared in his chair; no more than five feet six inches tall, and somewhat hippy and short-legged when seen from behind. His uniform, like that of the other gendarmes, consisted of a pale blue shirt and dark blue pants. Unlike the others, however, he wore a perfectly knotted tie rather than leaving his shirt sensibly open at the throat, his pants were full-length trousers, not the rather skimpy shorts that were standard issue, and he had on a dark blue jacket, well cut to make the least of his absence of waist, and fitted out with a gleaming Sam Browne belt.
Either he was something of a martinet, thought Gideon, or he was well aware that his was not the type of build that would be at its best in a pair of short shorts. Gideon was betting on some of both.
The colonel turned from the window to look coldly at John. "Brigadier-chef Didier on Raiatea is extremely competent. I have full confidence in him.” He paused, then said in that suave, sardonic voice: “And I approved the report personally."
Even this was lost on John, who plowed ahead. “Well, yeah, I'm not criticizing him, but there are certain things you don't know..."
Bertaud listened without expression while John told him about his suspicions, about the accidents on the plantation, about the old gangland associations. To Gideon it sounded freshly outlandish; he could imagine what Bertaud was thinking.
When John was finished, Bertaud turned blandly to Gideon. “Is he really with the FBI?"
John, finally stung, flushed. “Yeah, I'm with the FBI,” he said angrily, “and all I need to know from you is a: Are you going to let us see the report or not? And b: What's going on with the exhumation order?"
"There is no exhumation order, I'm afraid."
John's mouth opened and closed. “There—"
Gideon cut in. “I understand that it would have been filed with the health department. Let's see, that would probably have been—"
"There is no exhumation order with the health department."
"Now look, Colonel,” John said, “Nick Druett told me he filed one. Are you telling us—"
"Your uncle did file such a request. Subsequently, he withdrew it."
"Withdrew!" John exclaimed, jumping to his feet and leaning with both hands on Bertaud's desk. "Why?"
"I suggest you ask him. Now, gentlemen, as enjoyable as this has been, my time is limited and I must—"
"Let's go, Doc,” John said abruptly.
Gideon rose. “Thank you for your help, Colonel."
"One moment more, please, gentlemen,” Bertaud said. The transparent blue eyes held them. “I hope you will enjoy your stay in Tahiti, but I remind you that you are on French soil. I will tolerate no interference in island affairs. This is understood?"
John returned his stare. "Oui, mon colonel!" he said.
And clicked his heels and saluted.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 12
* * * *
"I am really steamed,” John said through clenched teeth. “I mean, I am really pissed! I mean, I really let that little crud get to me."
"No kidding,” Gideon said. “Really?"
He had convinced John to stop for a cool-down beer at a sidewalk cafe a few blocks from the gendarmerie, in the heart of Papeete's downtown; a busy place with bright, cherry-colored canvas chairs, bright cherry-colored plastic tables, and a big, bright, cherry-colored canvas awning over everything that filtered the strong sunshine, letting through only a cool, watery, reddish glow that made it seem as if they were sitting on the bottom of a pink-lemonade ocean. Even the dust motes were rosy. Cafe Le Retro, it said on the awning. Pizzeria—Brasserie—Bar Americain. And if nothing else, at least the music on the speaker system was American: Elvis Presley crooning “Love Me Tender."
"Eez he ghrreally weez zuh aef-bee-aie?” John mouthed, doing a savage, surprisingly good imitation of Bertaud. “What a prune."
"He was just trying to be funny,” Gideon said. “It was a joke."
"Sure.” John glowered at him over the table. “Did you think it was funny?"
"Of course I didn't,” Gideon said promptly, glad now that he'd managed to resist the impulse to laugh at the time. “But remember, you were getting on his nerves a little too."
"Me!” John was flabbergasted. “What did I do?"
"Well, you did imply once or twice that an investigation that he signed off on might have been botched."
John dismissed this with a grunt. “He's short, that's his problem. He's got a chip on his shoulder, and all anybody— what's the joke now?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I just don't remember you letting anybody get under your skin like this.” The waiter arrived with their order: two Hinano beers in squat brown bottles with labels that proclaimed them la Biere de Tahiti in bold letters above a Polynesian version of the girl on the White Rock bottles.
John swigged directly from his bottle. “You know who he reminds me of? Not in looks, I mean. My brother, Nelson.” Then, perhaps mellowed by the beer: “Well, I don't know, maybe not as bad as Nelson.” He heaved a sigh and settled down. “Listen, you think he was telling us the truth about the exhumation?"
"The commandant of police?” Gideon poured a half-glass of Hinano that he didn't really want. “Sure, why would he lie?"
"I don't know. But if he's not lying, that means that Nick is. He didn't run into any red tape, he just changed his mind. And that raises some questions."
"Such as, what are we doing here?"
"Such as, what the hell is going on? Why would Nick back down?"
"It happens, John. Digging up relatives makes people squeamish when the time comes. It's not that surprising."
Maybe it wasn't, John told him, but weasel-words from Nick Druett
were, no matter the circumstances. When Nick committed himself to something he did it; no fencing, no dodging, no humbug about Tahitian red tape.
"Besides,” John added, “if he changed his mind, why would he fly us out here, and put us up, and all the rest of it?"
"Beats me. He's your uncle; you ought to do what Bertaud said and ask him “
"Yeah, I'll do just that,” said John. “But you know what I'm starting to think? I think Bertaud and Nick are—” he held up two fingers close together “—like that. I think Bertaud's in Nick's pocket. Nick's a powerful guy around here."
Gideon shook his head. “John, I really don't think so."
"Yeah, well allow me to differ.” And with that he sank into one of his rare sulks, slumping in his chair, sipping from the bottle, and scowling moodily into the middle distance.
Gideon was sympathetic, but only to a point. It seemed to him that Bertaud had right on his side, that the more they considered the “evidence” for a murder having been committed the flimsier it got, that while Nick's actions were hard to explain, there was no reason to assume that a cover-up was behind them. He was beginning to think that he and John were here on a wild-goose chase, not that he would mind all that much if that's what it came to. He had been ambivalent from the beginning, and if what it amounted to in the end was nothing more than a few days’ winter respite in the South Seas, he could live with that.
Besides, deep down he had the feeling that all these people, John included, would be better off if Brian were left in peace. Exhumations were like lawsuits; once begun they rarely turned out as expected, and however they turned out they had a way of leaving in their wake a family that wasn't much of a family anymore.
He sipped his beer, waited for John to come out of his funk, and abstractedly watched the parade of noontime activity just beyond the cafe tables, along the boulevard Pomare, Papeete's bustling heart. Guidebooks to Tahiti are near-unanimous in their advice on what to do when in Papeete: get out of it as soon as possible and go someplace that is unspoiled. Papeete, they explain, is noisy, dirty, tacky, commercial, and coarse. The bad press is nothing new. Robert Louis Stevenson sourly referred to it as “the dreaded semi-civilization of Papeete.” To Zane Grey it was “the eddying point for all the riffraff of the South Seas.” Somerset Maugham hated it. Paul Gauguin hated it. Jack London hated it.
Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 09 - Twenty Blue Devils Page 7
