Luke thought: he wonders if I know something no one else knows. He wonders what I have seen or heard. He is casting back, reviewing the events, trying to calculate just how much I know, if anything.

  Easley heaved a small sigh, once more addressed himself to his plate.

  On Saturday morning the black peaks of Nuku Hiva appeared over the horizon. At midmorning the Rahiria sailed into Taio Hae Bay.

  Borrowing the Orshams’ binoculars Luke scanned the reach of dark water. In various quarters four yachts were at anchor. None was the Dorado.

  Luke put down the binoculars. The Dorado had certainly arrived at the Marquesas. Brady would naturally prefer not to anchor at Taio Hae, the most frequented port of the islands. He would seek out an isolated cove, under great black crags, near one of the famous Marquesan cataracts.

  A letter or a message of some kind presumably awaited Luke, with instructions as to how to join the ship.

  The water of the bay was like a dark green mirror. The Rahiria eased with hardly a ripple up to the pier at the head of the bay. The sails came down; mooring lines were made fast to the dock.

  “Everyone must remain aboard the ship,” said the captain. “I will consult with the authorities.”

  The port commissioner and the commandant of the gendarmerie returned aboard the Rahiria with the captain: the commissioner a plump Frenchman with a gray toothbrush mustache, the commandant a massive white-haired Marquesan with a face carved from teak. They closeted themselves with the captain for twenty minutes, then called in the passengers, one by one. Ching Piao was first. He was dismissed almost immediately and went ashore. Next the Germans were called; they too were allowed to disembark. Easley was next. Luke paced back and forth, wondering what Easley would say, but more immediately concerned by the dilemma in which he found himself. Was he ‘Jim Harrison’ or was he ‘Luke Royce’? In either case he faced a potential embarrassment.

  Luke paced and pondered. ‘Easley’ — actually Benjamin Eiselhardt — was in something of the same fix. But Easley sauntered from the cabin, showing no sign of embarrassment. Luke turned sharply away. Easley went ashore.

  The Orshams were questioned next: first Fiona, then Derek. Finally Luke was summoned into the cabin. The commissioner looked hot and rumpled and disgusted with the whole proceeding. The commandant sat to the side, stolid as a stump. He fixed his eyes upon Luke’s face and never moved them, with unnerving effect.

  Luke’s dilemma was resolved at once. “Passport, please.”

  Luke heaved a sigh, pushed it across the table.

  “Hmm. Luke Royce.” The commissioner raised his eyebrows. “You are related to the lost man?”

  “We are cousins.”

  “Indeed. Well, then, what can you tell me regarding the tragic circumstances?”

  “Nothing. I went to bed; when I awoke Carson was gone.”

  “I see.” The commissioner glanced at a sheet of paper. “Who then is ‘Jim Harrison’?”

  This was the question Luke had been hoping to avoid. “In Papeete there was a person I wanted to avoid — someone from the States. I called myself ‘Jim Harrison’ because I was afraid she might follow me aboard the Rahiria.”

  The commissioner gave a soft snort of derision, but did not pursue the subject. “How do you account for your cousin’s disappearance?”

  “I have no idea. As you probably know, he had a quarrel with one of the deck passengers, but I can’t believe that the man would push Carson overboard on that account. It’s totally unreasonable.”

  The commissioner gave a noncommittal jerk of the head. “What of suicide? Was your cousin in poor spirits?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say so. I can’t imagine him killing himself.”

  The commissioner grunted, and spoke in French to the commandant, who returned a few gruff words.

  The commissioner turned back to Luke. “Can you tell us anything more?”

  “I wish I could.” For a moment Luke was tempted to blurt out everything: all his suspicions, all his inferences. He restrained himself. He could prove nothing; to act hastily would startle his quarry. His first and urgent task was to locate Brady Royce. “Has the schooner Dorado arrived from Honolulu?”

  “Several days ago, perhaps a week.”

  “Where is it anchored now?”

  The commissioner gave a shrug and rustled his papers. “I do not know.”

  “Did the captain leave a letter in your care for me?”

  “No.” He pursed his lips, pulled at his mustache. “The subject was mentioned. I suggested that the post office offered a convenient service.”

  “I see. Where is the post office?”

  “Next to the Englishman’s store. But it will be closed by now, or so I suspect, since it is Saturday afternoon. Perhaps if you hurry, you will find the postmaster on the premises.”

  Luke left the cabin in haste. He ran down the gangplank, to stand looking this way and that. Two heavy-faced women in limp white dresses and palm-frond hats turned to stare at Luke, then continued on their way chuckling. Luke realized that he must cut a ridiculous figure. But no matter! Where was the post office?

  A hundred yards north, tall trees shaded a row of frame buildings with rusty corrugated metal roofs. Luke set off up the road at a half-trot. Easley stood at the end of the dock inspecting a trimaran moored by fore and aft lines: a ketch-rigged craft perhaps thirty-five feet long, with an intriguing little stern-cabin. An Australian flag drooped from the stays.

  As Luke passed, Easley looked around, then with insulting deliberacy turned back to his contemplation of the boat.

  Luke gritted his teeth. Easley recognized his detestation, but clearly couldn’t care less.

  Luke stopped in front of a store with a faded sign reading: MC DERMOT, MERCHANDISER. A half-dozen Marquesans of various ages sat on benches outside or squatted, smoking and talking. Taking note of Luke, they became quiet, turning their heads to watch him. A different people from the amiable Tahitians, thought Luke: these were a brooding, heavy-minded folk, oppressed by their tragic history.

  Next to the store was a small frame building: the post office.

  Luke tried the door. It was locked. He gave the door-knob a rattle, stood back in disgust. The Marquesans watched with faint smiles for Luke’s discomfiture. A young man with peculiarly red hair curled tightly against his head murmured, “Fermée.”

  Luke gave a curt nod, and went to sit on a bench at the end of the porch. What to do next? Around Nuku Hiva’s shoreline were a dozen delightful coves and bays where the Dorado might be anchored. A pair of other islands were little more than an hour’s sail away: Ua Huka to the east, Ua Pu to the south. Brady might have taken the Dorado across to Hiva Oa, the largest and most beautiful island of the group. In the absence of information there were no decisions to be made. It might be instructive, thought Luke, to watch Ben Easley and learn something of his plans.

  But first, a try at the Marquesans. He crossed the porch: as before they halted their conversation, to look at him with faintly hostile indifference.

  Luke spoke in his halting French: “Connaissez-vous la grande goélette Dorado?”

  The young man with the red hair said, “Oui, monsieur. La goélette Dorado, je connais.”

  “Où est-elle, savez-vous?”

  “Elle est partie. Maintenant — je ne sais pas. Peut-être Hiva Oa. Peut-être Tahiti.”

  “Merci, monsieur.” Luke walked back down the road toward the dock, more slowly than he had come. The trimaran had set sail, he noted, and was skimming easily over the smooth bay. Easley no longer stood on the dock.

  Apprehension stabbed Luke. He ran back down the road, stopping short as the Orshams came past. “Where is Easley?”

  Derek Orsham facetiously raised his eyebrows at Luke’s brusqueness. He pointed to the trimaran. Luke’s worst fears were confirmed. “He picked up a letter at the post office — something about a boat he expected to meet. Then he dickered for a ride with the trimaran fellows and off they went.”

  Luke stared after the dwindling sails. He asked: “How did he get a letter? The post office is closed.”

  “I fancy it was open when he went ashore. Must have closed shortly after.”

  Luke turned and raced back to the store. He approached the red-haired man. “Où est la maison du maître de poste, connaissez-vous?”

  “Oui, monsieur.” The man made an indifferent gesture up the valley. “Là-haut.”

  “Montrez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Je vous paie cinq cents francs.”

  “Cinq cents francs?” The Marquesan considered. He looked sidelong at his fellows. They gave him no signal. He temporized: “Voulez-vous y aller maintenant?”

  “Oui, monsieur, tout de suite. C’est très important.”

  The young man rose languidly to his feet, shook his head to his companions in wry derogation. “Bon, allons-y.”

  He led the way up the road toward the head of the bay. In and out of the dank shade they walked, through the glaring contrasts of sunlight and gloom which distinguished the Marquesas Islands from Tahiti, where the air was open, the light even. The red-haired man turned aside into a lane angling up toward a cleft in the black crags. They walked in a melancholy hush punctuated by bird calls; foliage pressed in on them: tree ferns, breadfruit, mape, an occasional banana palm, ti plants with broad heart-shaped leaves. At irregular intervals paths led to thatched huts, each on its ancient stone paepae.

  The red-headed man turned up one of those paths, jumped aside as a raw-boned cur leapt out to the end of its chain. With fangs gnashing the air only inches from their legs, Luke and his guide sidled past the dog and approached a thatch hut differing from the others only in the motor-scooter parked on the paepae. A girl of fourteen or fifteen came to the door, gnawing at a chunk of cold breadfruit. The red-haired man spoke in the Marquesan dialect; she glanced sullenly at Luke, shrugged, uttered a few words, then took another bite of breadfruit as the red-haired man turned to Luke. “Pas ici.”

  “Où est-il? C’est très important que je le voie.”

  The red-haired man spoke again to the girl. She nodded toward Luke and spoke at somewhat greater length.

  The red-haired man turned to Luke once again. “Vous n’êtes pas français, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Non, non! Je suis américain.”

  A new colloquy with the girl: this time she gave grudging directions. The two men returned to the lane.

  The red-haired man spoke over his shoulder: “Le maître de poste, il visite ses amis.” He made a motion as of drinking, and looked furtively up the lane. “Les Français —” he made a gesture indicating contemptuous disapproval, and Luke nodded in comprehension. Cocoanut toddy, the illicit brew derived from the flowing sap of the cocoanut palm, was far more potent than it tasted, and likewise went untaxed, as did orange beer.

  The red-haired man led the way along a dark path which ran beside a patch of vanilla vines, crossed a meadow where a half-dozen brown Marquesan ponies grazed, then up the mountainside. Muffled through the foliage Luke heard the throb of a rather out-of-tune guitar, then a murmur of voices. Presently they came to a large paepae with a ramshackle hut at the back from which came smoke, the reek of frying fish and garlic. On the ancient stones sat two dozen men and women drinking toddy and orange beer: the first milky pale, the second the color of diluted orange juice. To the side lounged a dozen young bucks with pomaded hair, who laughed and joked but did no drinking. Luke wondered at their restraint.

  At the sight of Luke the group immediately became rigid. Scowls appeared; someone uttered a gruff challenge. The red-haired man called out; there was an exchange of conversation; Luke heard the word Rahiria. Then a portly man in gray trousers and a gray shirt rose to his feet, came unsteadily down from the paepae.

  To Luke’s gratification he spoke English with a furry, half-French, half-Marquesan accent. “Yes sir. I am the master of the post. You want to find me, eh?”

  “Yes. My name is Luke Royce. I think you have a letter for me at the post office.”

  “A letter is there. For Mr. Luke Royce. The post office is closed. I close it myself. On Monday I open it myself.”

  “The letter is very important,” said Luke. “I’ll pay you, say, a thousand francs to open up and give me the letter.”

  “No. That is against the rule. The French are very — how you say, pointilleux.”

  The red-haired man had quietly accepted a glass of toddy, and now he took another which he handed to Luke. The postmaster climbed with sodden dignity back up to the paepae, where he sat pointedly ignoring Luke.

  “Attendez un petit peu,” whispered the red-haired man. “Il boit beaucoup. Après — peut-être qu’il vous donnera votre lettre. Buvez avec lui. Il pensera que vous êtes son cher ami.”

  The advice, that Luke should drink with the postmaster until that official in an excess of camaraderie should totter to the post office and give Luke his letter, seemed far-fetched. But Luke had no better plan in mind. He climbed up on the paepae and seated himself on a bench. The toddy tasted like acrid cocoanut milk, not at all unpleasant. Luke sipped it cautiously. Not so the Marquesans, who drank enormous competitive gulps, as if each hoped to become more thoroughly drunk than his fellow. In the cook-house older women were working, without pleasure; from time to time a spate of angry words could be heard. Presently two girls carried forth platters heaped with what appeared to be fish balls and offered them among the celebrants. Luke took the smallest on the platter and found it to be more garlic than fish. The postmaster ate hugely and drank orange beer to match. As yet he showed no tendency to regard Luke as an old drinking buddy, and Luke began to wonder if, when totally drunk, his opinion would change.

  Luke became restless. He drank the toddy, looked at his watch, studied the postmaster, who now had removed his gray shirt to reveal a perspiration-stained undershirt and huge brown arms.

  Luke’s impatience became overpowering. The Dorado might already have departed for Hiva Oa, the Rahiria’s next port of call. But no; in this case Ben Easley would hardly have sailed off in the trimaran. The Dorado must be relatively close at hand.

  Luke could no longer contain himself. He jumped to his feet, approached the postmaster, and ingenuously put his request, as if it were a sudden new idea.

  The postmaster blinked glassy eyes, barely comprehending. Luke added an inducement: “I’ll buy you a bottle of whiskey!”

  “Letter comes Monday. You bring bottle of whiskey Monday.”

  Luke made a gesture of despair, jumped down from the paepae. The red-haired man showed no disposition to leave. Luke paid over five hundred francs and set off alone down the dank path. Only the young men with the oiled hair took note of his departure. Then once more they watched the drinkers, waiting until one or another of the women would stumble into the undergrowth to relieve herself.

  Seething with frustration Luke returned down the lane to Taio Hae village. He looked along the wharf: the trimaran had not returned. Luke cursed under his breath. He halted in front of the post office, peered through the dusty windows, hoping against hope to find an assistant or underling working overtime. The office was empty save for a dozen large wasps. Luke returned to the Rahiria. The cargo had been discharged; sacks of copra were being loaded aboard.

  The Orshams had been taking photographs of the copra-loading. “Have a nice jaunt?” Fiona asked brightly. “Boat’s about ready to leave,” said Derek. “We feared that you’d be left ashore.”

  “Mr. Easley went for a sail,” said Fiona, “and he’s nowhere in view. I’m sure he’ll miss departure.”

  “I’m staying here as well,” said Luke.

  “What?” cried Fiona. “Our little group is breaking up so soon?”

  “I’m meeting some friends on a yacht,” Luke explained. “I’d better get off my luggage. What have the police been doing?”

  “Interviewing deck passengers and the crew,” said Derek. “No one admits to a thing, though everyone blames that surly Leon Teofu.”

  “Yes, he’s a bit of a beast, isn’t he?” Fiona remarked.

  “Still — he claims innocence,” Derek pointed out. “The girl gives him an alibi.”

  “Declares that they were sleeping together, sly little basket!”

  “Hmmf,” said Luke. “Under the circumstances there’s not much to be done. It’s hard to investigate when there’s no evidence, no witnesses, nothing.”

  “Not even a corpse,” murmured Derek.

  “Poor Carson!” cried Fiona. “A shame, a dreadful shame!”

  Chapter XVII

  The Rahiria had sailed from Taio Hae Bay. Already the events aboard were diminishing. The faces seemed vague, the sounds remote, Carson’s disappearance an unlikely nightmare.

  At the rooming house annexed to the Englishman’s store, Luke was taken to a room at the back overlooking the chicken-yard. He put his suitcase on the bed and went to the front porch. There was a sail on the bay. Luke recognized the trimaran Banshee.

  He ran down the road to the wharf, and stood waiting. The wind was slight; the trimaran eased toward the dock with maddening deliberation. Two figures sat in the cockpit. Neither was Ben Easley.

  Fifty yards offshore the man at the tiller flung out the anchor, paying off line as the trimaran slid up to the wharf. The second man stood on the foredeck with a coil of line. He called to Luke: “Hey, matey, lend a hand, there’s a good chap.” He tossed over the line. “Just make fast to the bollard.”

  Luke hitched the line as directed. He spoke to the man on the foredeck, now lowering the mainsail. “Did you just take a man to the Dorado?”

  “Couldn’t be righter,” said the seaman. “Friend of yours?”

  “In a way. Where did you take him?”

  “Round the coast, place called Tai Oa Bay. Regular little Garden of Eden.”