by Matthew Head
THE CONGO VENUS
Matthew Head
FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK
Matthew Head is the pseudonym of John Edwin Canaday (1907-1985), an art critic and writer. Canaday was a New York Times art critic for seventeen years and authored several monographs of visual art scholarship. Late in life he wrote restaurant reviews for the Times. Under the “Matthew Head” pen name, he wrote seven mystery novels, three of which are set in the Congo and based on his experiences traveling there as a French translator in 1943. Canaday was born in Fort Scott, Kansas; his series sleuth, Dr. Mary Finney, is from Fort Scott as well.
THE CONGO VENUS
Contents
Part One
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
Part Two
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Part Three
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVETEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Part One
CHAPTER ONE
FIRST OFF, I WANT TO SAY that this happened in the Congo, and second I want to say what Liliane Morelli looked like, because the place she lived and the way she looked were the determining factors in her life, and in her death.
Her name, Liliane Morelli, doesn’t suggest her appearance. “Liliane” suggests delicacy, at least it does to me, and “Morelli” of course is Italian, so you think of a brunette, when as a matter of fact the most striking thing about her was her extreme blondness. I described her once as a “big blonde” and found that I had given an entirely false picture, suggesting a kind of deteriorating effulgence, just the reverse of her full blown but still very fresh quality. Liliane Morelli was young, in her early twenties when I first saw her, although you would never have described her as a girl, somehow. She was tall, with magnificent breasts and full hips, but she wasn’t “big” in the sense that “big” suggests something ungainly or overblown. She was a wonderful-looking woman, very female—and very unwise.
I would hesitate to describe her as beautiful, because she didn’t have the classical regularity of feature or the sparkle and animation that can make up for the lack of it, or any exotic quality at all, but even the people who disliked her, and there were certainly a lot of those, admitted that she was a good-looking woman, although those who disliked her most took relish in saying that she would fatten and coarsen early. But this she didn’t live to do.
She looked Dutch, but she was Belgian, like her husband, and inevitably she suggested a Rubens Venus, with the healthy luxuriance of her flesh, and the glistening silky quality of her yellow hair, and the opulence of her figure—a figure somewhat modified and trimmed down from the baroque Rubens model, it’s true, but still pretty sumptuous, a female figure on the grand scale.
Her origins were obscure, and some people said she had changed her name from Gerda to Liliane in an attempt at elegance, but about this I wouldn’t know. I don’t know what her maiden name had been, either, but even in the case of her husband, “Morelli” is a misnomer since it was his Italian great-grandfather’s name, and you wouldn’t have known to look at him that Morelli had a drop of Latin blood. He was a pure Flemish type, although not a very attractive one—beefy, sweaty, pasty, and with a great sagging belly, a Rubens Hercules to his wife’s Venus, but a Hercules gone soft and white in middle age. The gap between his age and Liliane’s may not have been as much as twenty-five years, but it certainly wasn’t much less.
So if I have established now what Liliane Morelli looked like, if I can refer to her and you can get something of the right picture, I can go ahead and talk about Dr. Mary Finney before I go ahead with the story of Liliane Morelli, because if it hadn’t been for Dr. Finney, there wouldn’t have been much of any story to tell about Liliane.
My good friend Dr. Mary Finney isn’t much given to formal philosophical statement, and she would wither you with one good strong snort if you intimated to her that she was any kind of philosopher, formal or the kind they call homely. The most she would admit to would be that she is probably the best doctor working within two hundred miles of any point on the equator, and has been for thirty years. But as for thinking of herself as really smart, she doesn’t look at it that way. Instead, she is apt to think that other people are just sort of stupid and confused, the way I am, or at least the way I seem to her much of the time. I am considered fairly bright by most people, including the ones who make out the Civil Service examinations, and my own mental processes seem to me clear as a bell, until Miss Finney explains them to me and shows me what has really been going on. To repeat something I’ve said before, she has told me that what I substitute for thinking is nothing more than the distortion of obvious fact by the systematic application of sentimental prejudice, but in the case of Liliane Morelli, Miss Finney saw eye to eye with me. That is, we agree with one another as to the kind of person she had been, and I say “had been” because Miss Finney didn’t know anything much about Liliane Morelli until after Liliane Morelli had died.
Miss Finney was talking about Liliane’s death when she came as close to getting philosophical, in a popular sense of the word, as she ever allowed herself to get. “I dunno, Hoopie,” she said to me, “death—I’ve seen a lot of it, naturally, and I can’t get as wrought up over it as most people do. I don’t think I’m just case-hardened. Your Madame Morelli, for instance. Young, good-looking, all that—any sudden death is a shock, especially when it’s somebody as full of life as you say she was, but get away from it just a little, just a few days, and you begin to see that person, really, for the first time.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
Miss Finney hesitated a moment and then said, “It’s just that death makes a kind of frame for life.” She paused again, looking a little uncomfortable at what she had said, then went on, “I mean, the minute you’re dead, the minute the whole thing is finished and over with, you’re a complete person for the first time. When a person’s alive, your perspective on him is all out of kilter. It’s like one of those snapshots that kids like to take, of somebody lying down with his feet up close to the camera so you don’t see anything much but feet. When a person’s alive, all you really see is what’s nearest you, the way they’re acting or thinking at that time of their life, at that moment, even. Parts take on so much importance that they’re out of balance with the whole. But when they’re dead, you get off and you see the whole thing and you know them for the first time. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so.”
“Of course it does. And what I’m trying to get is the whole picture of this Morelli woman.”
“I don’t see how you expect to get it from me. I didn’t really know her well.”
“You’re the best I can do. I can’t ask these questions of anybody else in town—not now. You give me everything you can, and I’ll be able to fill in the blanks. Now go ahead. When was the next time you saw her?”
My voice was tired and fuzzy because by that time I had been talking to Miss Finney about Liliane Morelli for three hours running, but I wanted to keep on talking, because I was finding that the more I talked to Miss Finney, the more I discovered for myself.
All this was in Léopoldville, which is the capital city of the Belgian Congo. It’s a fine little city, as little equatorial cities go, but it’s still a little equatorial city all the same, you can’t get around that. It has 6,000 whites and 60,000 or 600,000 blacks, I’ve read both figu
res, but it doesn’t make much difference. There are an awful lot of them, segregated in their own tremendous village (I suppose with that many people it’s a city, but somehow you can’t think of a native settlement, no matter how big, as anything but a village) which has a strict curfew that says they’ve got to be in there by nine at night and not come out again until five the next morning. The curfew also keeps whites out for the same hours, and I have an idea that the most interesting things that happen in Léopoldville happen in there during that time.
In addition to six thousand inhabitants, the white city of Léopoldville proper has, to name a few items as they come to mind, three ice-cream parlors, two newspapers of diminutive size, two movies, one of which runs almost every night, a bunch of stores where you can usually get anything you want, provided it isn’t anything you couldn’t get in an American village of five hundred, a few specialty shops, a golf club, a dance-and-social-function club, and a swimming club called the Funa—all these clubs for the elite, to which I happened to belong as an American on the Government payroll—and several cafés, including one called the Equatoriale, which is where this story, in a way, begins. The rest of Léopoldville is largely consulates and residences, some of these pretty comfortable, and some fancy avenues laid out on the general scheme of Hausmann’s Paris boulevards, but looking empty and self-conscious while they wait for the town to grow up to them.
The Café Equatoriale is an undistinguished little dump of a café but pleasant enough, and it was especially pleasant at this point, because to sit across any table, distinguished or undistinguished, from Mary Finney, is a treat, and this was particularly good because she had just come back to town after several months away.
It was about two weeks after the death of Liliane Morelli, and so far as I knew, Miss Finney didn’t know the Morellis at all, since she only hit Léopoldville from time to time en route to or from her own stamping ground, which is the Kivu, the great mountainous country right in the heart of Africa. As for me, I hadn’t thought much one way or another about Madame Morelli’s death. When I first heard of it, I had an immediate sensation of regret that I hadn’t known her better, and for a few days everybody talked about her with that particular sweetness they save for people who have been maligned in life, but there had been nothing unusual in the circumstances of her death except its suddenness, and even this suddenness was a fairly normal aspect of death in those parts. But now, after two weeks, I had almost forgotten her, and I certainly had no idea that Miss Finney could be interested in any way whatever.
The sun was blazing outside the café, and it was hot enough even in the comparative gloom inside to keep a little film of perspiration on you, and Miss Finney’s big freckled arms shone faintly in the dimmish light, although for the most part she was just a big hillocky silhouette capped by the pale dome of her sun helmet, against the merciless glare that vibrated beyond the big front window. It was early in the afternoon, and we were alone in the café. She took off the helmet long enough to tuck up a small hank of carroty hair, then settled the helmet on her head again, sighed heavily, and reached for her glass of lemon soda. She took a sip, set the glass down again, and said out of the clear sky, “Hoopie—this Morelli woman. Did you know her?”
“Morelli? Madame Morelli? Sure.”
“Very well?”
“Why—I don’t know. No, not very well, I guess.”
“How well?”
“Oh—pretty well, I guess. Depends on what you mean by well. I saw her around a lot, and I had one long talk with her, once, but—I don’t know what you’re after.”
“I just mean, how well? It looks like you could answer that.”
I said, “What is this?” because I had learned, by this time, to keep a sharp eye on Miss Finney’s questions.
She grinned at me and said, “Don’t look so suspicious. My God, Hoop, I hope the U.S. Government doesn’t ever put you on work that involves any kind of deception. You’ve got the openest goddam pan I ever saw on a boy in my life.”
“Well, well,” I said. “Home again.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Miss Finney said. “I asked you—“
“You didn’t answer mine,” I told her. “I asked you what this was.”
“It’s an interrogation,” Miss Finney said. “In my own simple way, I happen to be an M.D., and when somebody dies out here, naturally I’m interested.”
“Oh, sure, naturally,” I said. “Well, let’s see, there was a Portuguese storekeeper died here about three months ago, used to rent bicycles as a side-line, I remember. Want to know about him?”
“Now, Hoopie,” she said.
“You’re not fooling me,” I said, as the best general overall protection. “You’re puzzling me, but you’re not fooling me. But if you want to know, and you probably already do know, Liliane Morelli died of blackwater fever, oh, a couple of weeks ago, but I sure don’t see what that has to do with how well I knew her.”
Miss Finney sighed again and said, “I dunno, Hoop, sometimes it seems like life isn’t worth the struggle any more. Things get more complicated all the time. You used to be so simple I could get anything I wanted out of you without half trying. Now you want to bollix everything all up by asking why this and why that. All right, I’ve got something up my sleeve, but I want to let it ride for a while. Is that all right?”
“It’s a mixed metaphor, but otherwise I guess it’s all right.”
She ignored this and went on, “And I did already know it was blackwater fever.”
“Well, that’s all I can tell you. She had that Dr. What’s-his-name, the funny one—you know, Gollmer.”
“Yes, Dr. Gollmer. I knew that too.”
“Oh, you did. I’m doing fine. Do you know about him? About what people say?”
“Indeed I do,” Miss Finney said, “and that’s mostly why I’m pumping you. Look, Hoopie, I’ve got some questions. I’ll tell you something you don’t know about Madame Morelli and about Dr. Gollmer too, all in good time, but right now I’m going back to how well you knew her. I’m asking you that again.”
We were sitting well toward the back of the café. Some people came in the front door and Miss Finney paused, watching them. They looked around the place, then chose a table down near the front, far enough away so that we could still talk without being heard. Miss Finney watched them until they were preoccupied with their own talk, then turned to me and said, “If there’s no other way to get it out of you, I’ll ask specific questions. Specifically, were you sleeping with her?”
“Was I—What?”
“When you force me to be specific,” Miss Finney said, “I’m specific. I just thought I’d start at the top and work down. I take it you weren’t sleeping with her.”
“I certainly was not!” I said.
She went on, a little too casually, “No need to get huffy about it. You might have been. You’re young. You’re fairly normal, for your generation. You’re in Africa, where anything goes. Also, you’re adequately attractive for purposes of light entertainment, even if no one would describe you as a ball of fire. Adequately attractive for the kind of light entertainment they tell me La Morelli was preoccupied with. From what I hear,” she said, raising her hand at me because I had opened my mouth to say something, “from what I hear, the Morelli woman was both desirable and available. There.” She lowered her hand and said genially, “Your turn now.”
“Look,” I said. “For you, you’re not doing well at all. I didn’t think you could be so gullible. You come here talking about a woman you don’t even know, probably never even saw, and right away you pick up the small-time gossip that goes on in a place like this, ‘They say,’ ‘They tell me,’ ‘From what I hear,’ all that stuff, and you give me the old routine about Liliane Morelli being a sure lay—”
“A what?”
“An easy make. Do you know that one?”
“I can figure it out. Go on.”
“Well, anyway, you give me this stuff about her that use
d to go all over town all the time, when as a matter of fact I bet nobody could give you an ounce of proof, not an ounce, and if you ask me—”
Miss Finney was really beaming. “Hoop,” she interrupted, “for me, I’m still doing all right. That’s exactly what I wanted to know. To do what I want you to do, you’ve got to have liked Madame Morelli some, and I think you did. And you’ve got to be able to separate heresay and casual or vindictive statement from whatever kind of truth lies beneath it, and—golly, listen to me talk. Let’s get out of here, let’s go somewhere.” She reached across the table and patted my hand, or rather pounded it a couple of times, and said, “Where do we go? So you can begin at the first. I want to know the first time you saw Liliane Morelli and all about it, and all the other times. Where to?”
“Hippo Point,” I said, and we got up and I paid the check and we left.
CHAPTER TWO
HIPPOPOTAMUS POINT is a kind of parking overlook outside of town where a small terrace with benches and a retaining wall have been built up at the top of the cliff, the cliff that drops off into the Congo, and there is a little path near by that winds down through thickets to another couple of benches near by. There is supposed to be a hippopotamus-in-residence in the river at this point and everybody I know except me says he really has seen it, all except Mary Finney, who wouldn’t even look for it, because she said that after thirty years of seeing so many of them off and on she’d take a heap more interest in the sight of a good old Kansas mule. Because Miss Finney is originally from Fort Scott, Kansas, although everybody always calls her a New England spinster just because she’s never been married and because she once made a visit to Connecticut with her good New England spinster friend and fellow-worker, Miss Emily Collins. Maybe there isn’t any genus Middle-Western-spinster, but that is probably what Miss Finney is, since there certainly isn’t any such thing as the genus Congo-spinster.
