the Tuomotus is the Low Islands. That’s what this flattish object is,
a low island on the sea. Then he’s put OR – and drawn the cow.
It’s two drawings for the same place – the Tuamotus.” “For God’s sake,
why?”Campbell demanded.
“Cows go moo – they low.” And she burst out laughing. I had to join
her and even her father started to smile as he saw the joke. If true,
it was a good one. We put the incident with Kane out of our minds.
As Esmerelda drew nearer to Tahiti the sea gave place to mountains,
hazy green, and then we began to see the surf breaking on the beaches
as we sailed along the coast. We all turned our thoughts to cold beer
ashore.
Papeete, the Pearl of the Pacific, is a pleasant town with all the
usual offices – banks, a hospital, shops and so forth, but it is also a
collection of tin huts set down on a tropical island and therefore a
trifle squalid; but the setting is magnificent.
Arriving there we tied up almost in the main street and there are not
many ports in the world where you can do that.
Looking over the harbour you can see the island of Moorea nine miles
away, a volcano which exploded in the far past leaving a jumble of
spires and peaks leaning at impossible angles, one of the most splendid
sights in the world, and one which must go a long way to compensate for
any inconveniences occasioned by living in Papeete.
I looked around the harbour for the Eastern Sun but there was no sign
of her, so I tried to relax as we waited for customs clearance.
Campbell was fretful, anxious to go ashore and see if there was
anything for him at the post office. He was too much in the dark
concerning the Suarez-Navarro expedition.
I wasn’t any too patient myself. I had questions to ask and I AL
wanted to try and see the Governor. I believe in starting at the
top.
At last a customs officer arrived, gave us a leisurely scruti and
departed, leaving us free to go ashore. I had asked him when the
Eastern Sun was due, and one of life’s rare miracles occurred.
“The cruise boat, m’sieur? She come any time, I ‘ave ‘eard on the
radio. She is due tomorrow.” I spoke to Geordie before everyone
vanished. “Who are the two toughest chaps you have?” “Ian Lewis for
one,” he said promptly. “Then it’s a toss-up between Taffy and Jim
Taylor.” “Whoever it is must be good at unarmed combat.” “Then it’s
Ian and Jim. Taffy’s the knife expert. Who do you want laid out?”
“Paula Nelson will be in tomorrow, on the Eastern Sun.
And this place is unhealthy for her. When it comes in I want you to go
and meet her, because she’ll recognize you, and I want you to take the
others along, collect her and bring her back here unhurt.
Anyone who tries anything is to be stepped on hard.” He listened
carefully and then nodded. I knew she’d be in good hands.
“Right. I’ll leave you to your own filthy devices, Geordie.
We’ll want to get refitted so that we could leave almost any time, so
warn the crew not to stray. Anyone who ends up in gaol stays there.
I’m going to try for an interview with the Governor.”
There was a lot of mail for Campbell at the main post office.
He was back even before I went ashore, clutching a sheaf of papers and
disappearing below with Clare. I hoped he’d let her out some time, and
it occurred to me to ask her to dine with me that night. It would be
nice not to eat surrounded by the others, but nicer still with Clare
along. I collected a file from my cabin and set out for Government
House, and discovered it to be a rambling edifice in Late Tropical
Victorian set in a large garden.
I had, as I expected to have, a royal tussle with batteries of
underlings, secretaries and so forth, but I was persistent and was at
long last shown to a room to await a summons for a brief meeting with
the Governor. He was a tall, cadaverous man with a thin hairline
mustache, sitting behind an imposing desk cluttered with papers. He
did not rise but stretched his hand out to me across the table.
“M. Trevelyan, what can I do for you? Please sit down.” I said,
“Thank you for seeing me, Monsieur – en’ “My name is MacDonald,” he
said surprisingly, and smiled as he saw my expression. ‘it is always
the same with you English – you cannot understand why I have a Scottish
name but you should know that one of Napoleon’s Marshalls was a
MacDonald.” It appeared that this was one of his usual opening gambits
with English visitors, so I said politely, “Are you any relation?” “My
father thought so, but many Scots settled in France after the abortive
revolutions in the eighteenth century. I, myself do not think I am
descended from a Marshall of France.” He became more businesslike.
“How can I help you, M. Trevelyan?” His English was fluent, with
hardly a trace of accent.
I said, “About a year ago my brother died in the Tuamotus, on one of
the smaller atolls. There appears to be some mystery about his
death.”
MacDonald raised his eyebrows. “Mystery, M. Trevelyan?” “Do you know
anything about it? “I am afraid I have no knowledge of the death of
your brother, For one thing I am new here, and am merely the Acting
Governor; the Governor of French Oceania is away on leave. And also
one would not recall the details of every death, every incident in so
large a jurisprudence as this one.” I wouldn’t describe my brother’s
death, possibly his murder, as an incident myself; but no doubt the
Governor would see it differently. I managed to express my
disappointment without actually dismissing myself from his office,
which had clearly been his wish, and he settled back to hear me out.
“We will have something in the files,” he said, and picked up a
telephone. While he was speaking I opened my own file and sorted out
documents.
He replaced the receiver. “You spoke of some mystery, M.
Trevelyan.” “Mark – my brother – died on an unnamed atoll. He was
treated by a Dr Schouten who lives on an island called Tanakabu.”
MacDonald pulled down his mouth. “Did you say Dr Schouten?” “Yes.
Here is a copy of the death certificate.” I passed a photostat across
the desk and he studied it.
“This seems to be quite in order.” I said sardonically, “Yes, it’s a
well filled-in form. You note that it states that my brother died of
peritonitus following an operation to remove a burst appendix.”
MacDonald nodded. I was going to continue but I was interrupted by the
appearance of a clerk who put a file on MacDonald’s desk. He opened it
and scanned the contents, pausing halfway through to raise his head and
look at me thoughtfully before bending his head again.
At last he said, “I see the British Foreign Office asked for details.
Here is the letter and my superior’s reply.” “I have copies of those,”
I said.
he scanned the papers again. “All seems in order, M.
Trevelyan.” I pushed another photostat across the desk. “This is an
attested copy of a statement made by an English doctor to the effect
that he removed my brother’s appendix several years ago.” It didn’t
take for a moment and then suddenly it sank in.
MacDonald started as though I’d harpooned him and picked up the
photostat quickly. He read it several times and then put it down. “It
looks as though Dr Schouten made a mistake then,” he said slowly.
“It seems so,”I agreed. “What do you know about him?” MacDonald
spread his hands. “I’ve never met him – he never comes to Tahiti, you
understand. He is a Dutchman and has lived in the Islands for about
twenty years, administering to the people of the Tuarnotus group.” But
I remembered his wry mouth and sensed that he knew more.
“He has a problem, hasn’t he? Is he an alcoholic?” “He drinks, yes
but everyone does. I drink myself,” said MacDonald in mild rebuke.
He was not going to commit himself.
“Is he a good doctor?” “There have never been any complaints.” I
thought about Schouten, living in a remote group of islands far from
the administrative centre of Papeete. Complaints about his
professional capacity would have a way of dying on the vine, especially
if most of his clientele were local people.
I said, “Did Dr Schouten come to Papeete to report my brother’s
death?”
MacDonald consulted his file. “No, he didn’t. He waited until there
was a convenient schooner and then sent a letter together with the