No Mask for Murder Read online

  If by any chance Dr. Garland hadn’t taken the bribe, he’d certainly be all for an investigation. In that case, Dubois would keep as far in the background as possible and Johnson Johnson could take the rap. But if Dr. Garland had done it, he simply couldn’t afford to face investigation—unless of course he thought he could bluff it out. He had always had unlimited confidence in himself. It was more likely, though, that he’d try to get away from the Colony, knowing the game was up. Dubois didn’t much mind whether he got away or not. Whether he ran or whether he stayed, the humiliation would be complete—though Dubois rather liked the idea of the great Dr. Garland taking to his heels. He couldn’t quite see it happening, but it was a pleasantly ignominious thought. Of course, a man in Dr. Garland’s position and of Dr. Garland’s character might well commit suicide. That was what often happened in such cases. That would be quite satisfactory.

  As he sipped his reki, Dubois’ imagination explored several attractive paths. With Dr. Garland humbled and out of the way, he would get the department. There was no doubt about that. No other claimant existed, and the Government was always anxious these days to appoint a coloured man whenever possible, “even though it may involve some decline in efficiency,” as the policy decision had impudently put it. With the department in his hands, Dubois would make many changes. There were one or two white doctors who could usefully be dispensed with. They only caused bad blood in the services, simply by being there. They could be encouraged to ask for transfers and their places could be filled with reliable local men, friends of Dubois. He could begin to organise the department as his instrument. He could use it for his political purposes. He would take steps, for instance, to see that suitable statements reached the press. The Colony’s health was appalling, and the administration could be blamed—not directly, perhaps, but by implication.

  He would begin his campaign by exploiting Dr. Garland’s lapse. One of the greatest blunders, his argument would run, had been to entrust such an important charge as Public Health to a corrupt expatriate white instead of to a trustworthy local man who had the interests of his own people at heart. That particular situation had been dealt with, he would let it be known, as a result of the vigilance and public spirit of Ezekiel MacPhearson Dubois. But there was still much to be done. The department was starved of money, and the poor were neglected, because the white business men who were taking so much out of the Colony didn’t want to pay higher taxes. (It was true that some of the wealthiest business men were coloured, but the fact could be slurred over for the time being.) Simple people were suffering and dying because of the whites—that was the line. A scandalous state of affairs. It would be necessary to see to it that the press had every opportunity to publicise the facts about the neglected health services. It should have greater access to the hospitals, particularly some of the very bad provincial ones. Pressmen should be shown round the maternity wards, where over-crowding was so bad that more than a hundred mothers were delivered every year in each bed, and some of the children’s wards, where it was common to find two or three in a bed at the same time, and the observation block, which was a fire-trap. Yes, the observation block would provide some valuable headlines. In a short time, so much trouble could be stirred up that the Finance Committee would have no alternative but to vote more money. He, Dubois, would lead the agitation.

  It wasn’t perhaps the traditional role of the responsible civil servant, but at this stage no one would dare to attempt to discipline him. Only Dr. Garland would have done that. Dubois would be too strongly supported by his friends in the Legislative Council. Sooner or later, in any case, he’d have to abandon administration for politics, and get himself elected to the Council. The people needed an educated leader. They had plenty of ignoramuses who were ready enough to set themselves up as leaders—men who couldn’t speak English or write a grammatical pamphlet; dangerous agitators whose one idea of political struggle was to set fire to sugar cane; fanatical evangelists who had “got” religion in one of its thirty-odd local manifestations and thought that it was an adequate substitute for a practical knowledge of affairs. Dubois would soon oust them. Education always won in the end. He was young—not much over thirty—good-looking and eloquent. He might well become Prime Minister when the Colony was granted responsible government. Dubois took another abstemious sip of reki. Yes, the future looked extremely bright.

  Suddenly, above the racket of the street, the telephone rang. He got up quickly, automatically adjusting his tie as he walked to the receiver. Despite his forthcoming elevation to Prime Ministership a choking feeling came into his throat when he heard Garland’s voice. Ridiculous to feel so nervous of a man who would soon be in disgrace! He steadied himself and said with dignity, “How are you, Dr. Garland? I trust you are having an enjoyable holiday.”

  “Not so bad,” came Garland’s voice, terse and brittle. “Listen, Dubois, I’ve been thinking over that matter we talked about and I’d like to have a word with you right away. I’m in town—what about meeting this evening?”

  “You know I am always very ready to fall in with your wishes,” said Dubois. “Where would you like me to meet you?” He felt suddenly apprehensive about what Garland might do, and he had no desire to be alone with him, out of the public gaze.

  “I’d ask you along to my place,” said Garland, “but my wife is entertaining, and it wouldn’t be very convenient. I suggest we meet for a drink somewhere. Somewhere in keeping with the spirit of the holiday, eh? What about the Blue Pool? It won’t be very quiet, but then it’s not quiet anywhere tonight.”

  Dubois hesitated. The Blue Pool! Not exactly the place he would himself have suggested going to. It had—well, a reputation. He had always rather wanted to go, of course; it was supposed to have a rather risqué floor show. And after all, it was Fiesta, and being there with such a respected figure as Dr. Garland would surely make everything all right.

  “If you think that’s a suitable place, Dr. Garland,” he said, putting the responsibility squarely on his superior, “I shall of course be very happy to join you there. Would you like me to come immediately?”

  “If you don’t mind,” said Garland. “I’ll be inside—you shouldn’t have any difficulty in finding me. I’ll expect you in about half an hour.”

  “Very good,” said Dubois. He smiled as he replaced the receiver. It would be rather pleasant, doing his duty and yet enjoying himself at the same time. Listening to Garland trying to talk himself out of the mess he was in, having a drink or two, watching the girls, and at the same time feeling quite secure.

  He brushed his crinkly black hair, ran a delicate finger over his moustache, put on his white linen jacket, and descended to the street. It would be hopeless to look for a taxi—no car would get through the crowds. He would stroll along by the sea front, where there was the best chance of a breeze. He wanted to feel cool when he arrived—one was always at a disadvantage at an interview when one was perspiring and the other man was not. As he walked, he prepared a few suitable phrases with which to meet the various situations that might arise. “A great tragedy for the Colony as well as a personal tragedy for you, sir.…” That would be appropriate if Garland broke down and admitted his guilt. Dignified, statesmanlike. Or, “I fear your decision leaves me no alternative but to go at once to the Governor.…” That would counter any attempt to hush things up. Or, “Of course, Dr. Garland, I fully share your belief that the inquiry will dispose of the whole thing as an empty rumour.…” That would do if Garland seemed inclined to face an inquiry. Dubois wished he knew what Garland was going to say. Obviously he had a proposition of some sort to make or he wouldn’t have suggested the meeting.

  Dubois realised with a shock of embarrassment that he had automatically fallen into a sinuous shuffle. He tried hard to correct it, but the rhythm beat at him from all sides, and the example of the crowds was contagious. He threw back his shoulders and strode ahead; avoiding the worst of the crush. Twice he looked at his watch. He didn’t want to be too early�
��that would show servility. But he didn’t want to be late—Dr. Garland hated unpunctuality. Precisely thirty minutes after Garland’s call he turned into the grounds of the Blue Pool.

  The place was built on the lines of a modern roadhouse, with a large white two-decker restaurant and dance floor brilliantly lighted, several bars, and an orchestra on the balcony. On the ground below the balcony was a large circle of polished wood where the floor shows were staged under a spotlight and where, at other times, customers could dance. Round the floor were scores of tables, some of them set in the open and some discreetly concealed among flowering bushes and coconut palms in the grounds. Beyond the building was the private lagoon and beach which gave the place its name. Altogether, it was a popular, vulgar, and stimulating spot.

  To-night, of course, the Blue Pool was packed and very rowdy. By no means all the customers had been able to find tables. Crowds were milling around the bars, and more crowds packed the sandy beach and the lagoon itself, from which shrieks of female laughter rose above the general din. Everywhere there were groups of people drinking and shouting and jigging under the coloured lights festooned among the trees. The central floor was alive with men and girls “traipsing” in a continuous snaky circle to the tune of the old “le’go,” “Who Dead Canaan?” Almost everyone was in costume of some sort, and about half the people were masked. There were, Dubois saw, quite a lot of whites or near-whites. Liquor was flowing freely everywhere, and so was money. The Blue Pool was no place to go for a cheap evening. It was a good thing that Garland would be paying.

  Feeling very sober and somewhat conspicuous, Dubois elbowed his way rather diffidently through the vast throng, keeping his eyes open for his chief. A dusky girl accosted him and took his arm, but he shook her off impatiently. It really oughtn’t to be hard, he thought, to pick out a man like Dr. Garland, even in a crowd like this, though it might take time because it was so difficult to pass between the tables. After a fruitless search in the neighbourhood of the dance floor he turned in among the coconuts. Perhaps Dr. Garland had chosen one of the quieter spots—if such a word could be used of such a place on such a night. Perhaps he’d been unable to get one of the tables near the floor. That was a pity; obviously you had to be near to get the full advantage of the floor show.

  Just inside the belt of palms, beside a gorgeous hibiscus, a masked white woman at a table turned her head and seemed to regard Dubois with more than casual interest before devoting herself again to her male companion, who was also masked. A few yards farther on, a coloured man wearing a turban and a long white robe sat alone. Not much fun, Dubois thought, coming alone to a place like this. Or perhaps he was waiting for someone. Dubois stepped aside to let a party of chalk-faced minstrels pass and was about to resume his search when a familiar voice said quietly, “Ah, there you are, Dubois. Have a seat.”

  Dubois whipped round, his face frozen in astonishment. He stared for a moment at the turbaned figure and the bright steady eyes and then flopped into a chair. “Good gracious me!” he said, breaking into the sweat he had tried so hard to avoid.

  “Quite an effective costume, don’t you think?” said Garland.

  Dubois, who had not yet recovered his poise, gazed at the brown hands, the brown skin around the turban and under the chin, the rough cloth mask tied with bits of string. “I’m very surprised,” he said, “very surprised indeed!”

  “I thought you would be,” said Garland. “My wife made me do it—she said it would amuse the guests. Personally, I find it damned hot. It all comes of changing my mind and not going fishing.”

  “I should never have recognised you,” said Dubois. He felt that he ought to sound disapproving. Actually, he was puzzled and a little worried. If Garland had been in the mood for dressing up and family merry-making, it didn’t look as though he could have very much on his conscience or be greatly troubled about the future. That numskull Johnson had probably got everything mixed up after all. Dubois wished Garland would take off the mask—it looked hideous, and talking to a masked face was very unsatisfactory. In a conversation such as they were about to have, expression was everything. Perhaps that was why Garland had put on the mask. Perhaps, after all, his conscience wasn’t so clear. Anyway, he’d hardly take it off now. He wouldn’t want anyone to recognise him in that fantastic get-up.

  “You’d better have a drink,” said Garland as a waiter came weaving through the crowd. “What shall it be—reki? Cheer up, Dubois. You look as nervous as though you’d just walked into a brothel for the first time.”

  Dubois, whose fascinated eyes had switched to the table under the hibiscus, said, “I’m not quite sure that I haven’t.” The two white people seemed to be pretty drunk. The woman, her hair completely covered by a white silk scarf and her body less completely covered by a gay beach wrap, was making what appeared to be half-hearted attempts to ward off the exploratory hands of her male escort. Garland also turned to look, with a spasm of irritation. He wouldn’t have taken this table if he’d known that white people had reserved the adjoining one, but by the time they’d arrived it had been too late to change. He wondered who the woman was. It was quite likely that he knew her, but she had obviously gone to great pains to make recognition impossible—just as he had. A good thing too, considering her behaviour. A frustrated exhibitionist, no doubt. Apart from the wrap she seemed to have very little on.

  With a conscious effort Dubois averted his gaze. “Disgusting!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid some of your people don’t set us a very good example, Dr. Garland.”

  “No,” said Garland indifferently. The sooner he got this over, the better. He’d nothing to say to Dubois. The mere sight of him, sitting there so neat and smooth and complacent, made his gorge rise. All that was necessary now was to choose the right moment, and strike hard and true. People kept passing the tables, but they were interested only in themselves. With care, the crowd should be a safeguard. He must watch for his opportunity, and deliver the blow unobserved, and go.

  The waiter, jostled by an unsteady passer-by, slopped the drinks on his tray and nearly dropped it. “Sorry, sah,” he said. “Too much peoples, sah!” He put down the two glasses, and slipped away through the trees.

  Dubois took up his glass. Surely Garland wasn’t going to attempt to drink in a mask! He felt that this whole business of the costume was very inconsiderate and ill-mannered. Here he was himself, in his ordinary clothes and easily recognisable, in a place of dubious repute that he wouldn’t normally have come to, and the shield of respectability on which he had relied turned out to be no shield at all. From the slots of the mask, Garland’s eyes stared. Dubois’ nervousness increased. He ought not to have come. He wished Dr. Garland would start talking. He raised his glass and said, “Your very good health,” glad to moisten his dry lips. Garland said, “Long life!” and carefully applied the glass to the mouth slot in the mask.

  At the next table the man and woman were in close embrace and oblivious of everything but themselves. An extra loud crash came from the distant orchestra, and a white spotlight was turned on to the dance floor. It looked as though the show was about to start. This seemed to be the moment for action. Garland leaned forward. “By the way, Dubois,” he said quietly, “the reason I asked you to see me was that I think I’ve cleared up the whole business. It was just a misunderstanding, I’m glad to say. This document explains everything.”

  He got up, went round to the other side of the table, and thrust a sheet of paper before Dubois’ disappointed eyes. As he leaned over, his right hand fumbled for the knife handle. Dubois, his eyes screwed up in concentration, read a few lines of the typescript but could make nothing of it. He looked up at the masked face in puzzled inquiry, just in time to catch the glitter of the descending knife. His mouth opened to yell, but before he could utter a sound, agony tore his body. The knife, directed with precision, pierced his heart. He slumped face downwards upon the table, knocking his glass to the ground.

  The woman in the beach wrap looked up
at the sharp sound of breaking glass. Garland had already turned to go when a group of carousing men and girls came rollicking into view and converged unsteadily upon him. In his haste to get away Garland collided with a big Negro. The man, tipsy and showing off to his girl, replied with an unceremonious push. Garland stumbled and almost lost his balance, and as with an effort he prevented himself from falling, his turban dropped to the ground.

  He snatched at it and thrust it back on his head, but not before the woman at the next table had given a gasp that spelt recognition. Her glass was poised in mid-air, halted in the act of drinking, and the eyes behind her red mask were fixed on him. He was seized with desperate fear, but there was nothing he could do about her. At any moment the newcomers would discover the knife in Dubois’ back. Garland gathered up the hem of his long robe and rushed away into the crowd. He had not gone more than a dozen steps when there was a shriek behind him. The murder was out!

  Chapter Thirteen

  Once again Garland was leaving town in the station wagon, but this time he was driving fast. He was in no immediate danger, for he had reached the car without being pursued, but his foot on the accelerator instinctively obeyed the impulse of flight. He had stopped only long enough to divest himself of the mask, robe, and turban, which were now tucked well down in the back of the wagon.

  His mood was grim. He had done the job but he had made a mess of it. Up to the last moment the plan had worked perfectly, and then luck had turned against him and that clumsy oaf of a nigger had ruined everything.

  Garland had no doubt at all that he had been recognised. That sudden astonished immobility had been unmistakable proof. By now the police would be on the spot, and the woman in the beach wrap would be disclosing the identity of the man in the turban. That silver lock of hair would have been enough; it was unique. At various times the wives of most of his acquaintances had commented on it. The briefest glimpse was all that anyone would need to recognise him.