The Lower Deep (25 page)

Getting no response when he knocked on the bathroom door, Steve opened it and looked in. The room was empty. He checked Henninger's room, then went down the hall to the library. Two patients were there, one with a book, the other with a copy of the newspaper the missing manager had been reading the afternoon before.

"Have you seen Henninger?"

They said they hadn't.

Odd, Steve thought. Except to go to the bathroom, the sick man hadn't been out of his room lately.

He looked in other rooms and then, being near the kitchen end of the hall, turned left to the back door and opened that. The grounds at the rear of the retreat were deserted. On an impulse he stepped outside and walked around to the front. Juan Mendoza sat there on the steps, with a book. No one else was in sight.

"Juan, have you seen Henninger?"

"You mean he's not in his room?"

"I can't find him anywhere."

"No, I haven't seen him. But I'm glad to hear he's up and about. He must be feeling better."

I wonder, Steve thought.

Half an hour later he had to face the truth. Henninger had vanished, was gone, was missing, and no one at the Azagon had seen him go or could guess where he might be. After everything else
that had happened, this was too much. Steve went to the phone and called the Dame Marie army post.

But even the comfort of telling the lieutenant about it was denied him. Etienne had not come in yet.

While waiting for a return call, he went to Henninger's room again. The breakfast left there by the cook's helper was still on the bedside table: scrambled eggs, toast, coffee. He took up a fork and gingerly sampled the eggs. There seemed to be no trace of the substance that tasted like garlic.

It must have been Lazaire, then, who had laced the food with garlic—not someone else in the kitchen.

At nine-thirty Etienne arrived in the army jeep, looking less military than usual. Looking, in fact, seedy, tired, discouraged, and a good deal older than his thirty-live years.

"I understand you called and said it was important to get in touch with me, Doctor. I tried to call you back but my phone's gone St. Joe."

Leading him into the office, Steve told him not only about the disappearance of Paul Henninger, but about the flight of the cook, as well.

"You think there may be a connection?" Etienne asked.

"It's hard to think otherwise, wouldn't you say? First, Henninger wouldn't or couldn't eat the food that was sent to his room. Then when I talked to Lazaire about it, he packed up and walked out. Now Henninger himself is gone."

"What were the initials on that rule again, Doctor?"

"On what?"

"The rule you found in Mr. Morrison's room. The initials on it."

"Oh. Let me think. I believe they were A.V.R."

"You know that carpenter fellow Lazaire called on in The Hounfor? The one who makes coffins when he's not directing voodoo ceremonies? His name is Auxian Ramses."

"Lazaire said his name was—what did he say?—Jabot? Something like that."

"Lying. It's Ramses."

"Is that significant, do you think?"

"Doctor, any time a man lies when questioned, it is significant. Anyhow, I'll bet you I can find out from Mr. Auxian Ramses where your cook is. And from the cook I'll get some answers."

"I hope so, Lieutenant."

"And when I do," Etienne said with a scowl, "I'll lay you even money we find out where your manager is, too. I wish to God I felt that optimistic about finding young Ginny Jourdan."

F
or the next three days, Steve Spence had his
hands full. Patients insisted on leaving, and had to be transported to Cap Matelot to catch the daily plane to the capital. With Henninger gone, Steve elected to do some of the driving.

Nadine accompanied him when she could, and they talked. Not now about his lost five days at Fond des Pintards, but about the problems of the moment. Once, on the way back from Le Cap, Steve simply stopped the Azagon station wagon and put an arm around her. They sat in silence, with her head on his shoulder, for all of fifteen minutes, and on reaching for the wheel again he said quietly, "Thanks, pal. That was just what a doctor would have prescribed at this point."

Then Paul Henninger came back.

He did not return naked at night this time. He came as a passenger in Dr. Louis Clermont's old Renault, with Clermont driving, at eleven o'clock of a bright St. Joseph morning—Friday morning—some seventy-five hours after his room had been found empty. And he came wearing his best dark suit, which was no great surprise to the people at the Azagon because it had been discovered missing when his room was searched for clues.

The suit was noticeably soiled and wrinkled, however, and Henninger's shoes were all but ruined. In addition, the manager had not shaved during his absence and so looked more like a West Indian beachcomber than a respectable working man.

Summoned from the kitchen where he had been discussing assorted culinary problems with the woman he loved, Steve Spence hurried to meet the two men in the lobby, and with a fervent "Thank God!" took hold of Henninger's hands. "Paul, where have you been?"

"Afraid he doesn't know," Louis Clermont said. "I'm not sure he even knew where he was when he walked into my office a while ago."

Henninger gazed contritely at the floor. "I'm sorry. I can only beg forgiveness."

Steve's mind reached back in time for, if not some answers, at least a clear view of the problems. Today was Friday. A week ago yesterday three persons had disappeared more or less at the same time: the Jourdan girl, George Benson's Alice, and Juan Mendoza. Two had returned; Ginny Jourdan had not.

Where, then, was Ginny? What had happened to her? And would her return—if she returned—provide an answer to the mystifying things that had been happening since her disappearance?

Steve looked from Henninger to Dr. Clermont. "Have you examined him, Louis?"

"Yes, I've looked him over pretty thoroughly and found nothing much wrong. If we just talk awhile, he may remember something. How about the library?"

Going there, they found the library deserted, and sat.

"Paul, do you remember leaving here?" Steve asked.

"No, Doctor."

"We're a little vague about when you did. It seems you told a kitchen helper Monday evening that you didn't want any dinner. Then in the morning another lad brought your breakfast, and your room was empty."

"I don't know when I left," Henninger repeated. "I don't know where I've been. To be honest, I have to admit Dr. Clermont is right in thinking I don't even remember walking into his office."

Clermont said, "Let's try to pinpoint something here. Just when did you realize you were in my office?"

"I think when you used my name."

"That could have done it, I suppose. Steve, there's a parallel here between this man's blackout and Juan Mendoza's, don't you think? Mendoza snapped out of his amnesia, if we're to call it that, when some fellow in Port Roche accosted him." Clermont turned back to the manager. "You know about that, do you?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Tired, are you?"

"A little."

"Well, if you want to go to your room and it's all right with Steve . . . After all, I've looked you over, and you must want to give your mind a rest, at least. Suppose we have another look at you this afternoon, both of us. That suit you, Steve?"

"Of course."

"I would be grateful," Henninger said, rising with an effort from his chair.

They watched him go. Then Clermont said thoughtfully, "I'd give a whole lot to know where he's been and what he's been up to. Wouldn't you?"

Steve's sigh was one of frustration. "I'd give a lot to know what really happened to Juan Mendoza, too. And to Lawton Lindo. And where that girl is. Damn it, Louis, do you suppose Dame Marie's voodooists really are—"

"Perhaps." Clermont's eyes narrowed in thought. "Where you people are concerned, maybe, though I can't see why the voodoo crowd would have it in for Ginny Jourdan or Alice Benson." He slowly wagged his head. "If the voodooists are after you, I think I'd suspect some kind of drug administered by that cook of yours. Especially now that he's doubled our suspicions by disappearing. I inquired about the coffin-maker he visited, by the way. Seems he's one of the most powerful
houngans
in this part of the country. But you want me to guess what happened to Paul, don't you? I mean, I saw him before you did."

Steve nodded. "Can you?"

"I can try. I'd say he's been outdoors most of the time. Maybe all the time. His clothes are a
mess and he hasn't shaved. I'd even say he was on a beach somewhere and went swimming in the buff, because when I looked him over in my office I noticed he was sunburned, and not just on the face. Yes, I'd say he's been sort of bumming around, having what you might call an involuntary vacation. And to be honest, I think it's done him more good than harm."

Again Steve nodded. "So you see a change for the better in him, too, do you?"

"He's not so scared."

"I agree."

"He'd been shut up in that room of his too long," Clermont said, "just lying there feeling sorry for himself because of the sleepwalking and so on. He was an outstanding athlete, you know. Mind you, I don't say he hasn't had a rough time of it with his parade of ailments, but those things tend to feed on themselves. Bet you anything you like, now that he's had a breath of fresh air we'll see
steady improvement."
        
-

"Unless, of course, he leaves here. He first asked if he could, then changed his mind. I've a feeling he may go when he feels well enough, though."

"One more puzzle," the black Abe Lincoln said dourly.

Steve frowned at him. "One more?"

"Why
did he change his mind?"

At half past three that Friday afternoon one of George Benson's fishermen, strolling down to Pointe Pierre, stopped on the way to his boat to watch George in action. On the pier George had finished showing some of his men different ways
of cutting up bait fish and was struggling to explain an idea that had come to him. Surprisingly it had come on his last visit to Dannie André's house, when she had asked him about his work. She often tried to help out with ideas. "I've been reading about long lines in one of the books you lent me," she had said. "Do you suppose . . ."

George had jumped up in excitement. "Hey! Maybe we could! A kind of short long line!"

Now, in Creole, he was struggling to explain to his hearers what a long line was and how, just maybe, he and they could work out a shorter version of one that could be handled from the kind of boats they used. Say one only two hundred or so feet long, with a reel on the boat to take it in. The reel could be fastened to the boat somehow, hooks would be maybe ten feet apart—Jap hooks or circle hooks, maybe number nines . . .

But, oh, Christ, the Creole. He could see he wasn't getting the idea across with his limited knowledge of the peasant tongue. Then suddenly he quit trying and laughed. Laughed out loud, remembering a time he had explained another of his fishing ideas to Doc Clermont and complained about the difficulty of explaining it to his men in Creole, and Doc had said, with a ferocious scowl, "Hell, stop blaming yourself. I don't understand it even in English!"

The group broke up, and the newly arrived man stayed to show George a new reel he had bought. Most of George's men used handlines, of course. Not what they had formerly used, but new stuff George had requisitioned for them—monofilament,
sixty-pound test so they could more easily feel the fish bite. A few, though, were eagerly trying out rod-and-reel, with encouraging results.

"Hey, this is a beauty," George said in the kind of simple Creole he felt comfortable with. "Where did you get it?"

The man named a store in Cap Matelot.

"You went to Le Cap? When?"

The man had to think. "Last Thursday. Not yesterday. A week ago yesterday."

That was the day Alice and her teacher friend had ridden the camion to Cap Matelot—if Alice's word was good for anything.

"You went on the fish truck?" George asked. His men often rode the pickup that went to Cap Haitien with their catch. None of them had transportation of their own.

The man shook his head. "No. I took the camion."

All things eventually came to a man of patience, George triumphantly told himself. "Did you see my wife on the bus that day, friend?"