The Curse of the “Star”

V

It was a breathless dawn, hot and torpid and muggy. The sun was a rising ball of brass and steam rose from the brush and the palms and the damp main road of the small thatched village.

Of fifty huts a good score had been smashed by the wind. This was Dakeet, child of catastrophe, step-daughter of the great winds, and island five miles long, three quarters of a mile wide, ringed about with coral reefs. The gray sea, not forgetting anger so quickly, still thundered at the reef and the outrigger canoes would not be launched for several days.

Mal stood on the sloping sand of the beach and looked out at the dead hulk of the Bjornsan Star. She was canted at a forty degree angle, resting on the shallow bottom, her starboard rail under water for all of its length except for a few feet near the bow. Some of the native boys had swum out to her. They sat on their heels on the canted port rail looking for all the world like three dusty brown birds. Between the thunder of each wave on the reef Mal could hear their chattering as they discussed this strange and wonderful deviation from the norm of Dakeet.

Sara came down to the beach from the shelter of the line-brush. The slacks, though badly wrinkled, were almost dry. She had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and she wore it open at the collar. Her hair was badly tangled and lifeless from the crusted salt, but her smile was for him alone.

“Dry, eh?” he asked.

“Enough to wear. Now tell me what you found out last night, Mal, after I collapsed on that cot in the resident’s house.”

“We were twenty-one, weren’t we? Now it’s fourteen. That man you saw slashed died of loss of blood. Torgeson was trapped below decks when she settled. He said he was going back for something just after the engines failed. MacLane and Gina are gone, of course. And two other men were swept away. One of them was the English-speaking mess boy.”

Her eyes clouded. “He was nice... and Gina... she was my friend, I guess.”

“We’re being given breakfast at the house of the resident. He’s had no time for us. Too busy taking care of his people here. There’s about two hundred of them. They had some deaths in the storm. There’s a bad food situation because of the storm. He told Dolan that he’d talk with us after breakfast.”

“Did you see him last night?”

“Just for a moment. Small, nervous type. French of course. His name is de Beauharnais. Been here for a long time, right through the last war. The people are Micronesian — probably stranded here during one of their long jaunts a few hundred years ago. We’d better head toward his place. It’s a ten minute walk, wouldn’t you say?”

Even the sturdy residency had suffered damage from the storm. The roof of one of the wings had been torn off despite the anchor cables fastened to buried logs. But the wide screened porch was intact. It was placed at the head of the village street and but fifty feet from the waterfront. The next building was a store, undamaged, its windows still boarded up. The neatly lettered sign over the closed door said, “A. Hayaka — Merchandise” in three languages.

The others were all gathered at the end of the big porch which, in L shape, encircled the village side and the sea side of the building.

Mal and Sara nodded at the others. Temble said to her, “Come here, my dear.”

She glanced up at Mal then shook her head firmly. Branch took two slow steps toward her, looking back at Temble like a dog eager for command. Temble said softly, “Not now, Tom.” Dolan chuckled dryly.

There were not enough chairs for all of them. Sara and Mal wandered away from the rest. In a little while de Beauharnais came up the steps onto the porch, his face sagging with a bone-deep weariness. He carried a small black bag which he handed to one of the house boys.

In spite of his obvious tiredness, there was an electric vitality about the small man. He faced the group in silence. “Have you injured?” he asked. “Forgive me for not asking before. I am the doctor here, too, as you see.”

“One bad wrist,” Dolan said. He turned and spoke to the man in question, who held out a swollen, discolored hand, wincing as the resident fingered the wrist.

“Sprained only. Tell him to remain with me. I will tape it.” Dolan spoke to the man who then stepped back into the group. “Are all of you here? Yes? It makes fourteen, eh? Did you radio your position?”

Dolan explained about the radio. De Beauharnais gave a Gallic shrug. “You will be with us for some time, I see.”

“How do you mean that?” Temble demanded harshly.

De Beauharnais raised one eyebrow and stared at Temble as though astonished by the tone of rudeness. He answered quietly. “It is three weeks before one of the island ships will stop here. We have no mode of communication with 'outside’. We must plan what must be done. What cargo have you? Anything salvagable?”

“A good deal of tinned food, sir,” said Dolan. “Australian butter. Tinned New Zealand beef. I took a look at the ship. At low tide it shouldn’t be much of a chore.”

“Excellent!” the Frenchmen said, smiling. “That will help solve bur most pressing problem. As soon as you have rested I shall require you to take a party of your men and begin salvage operations. The foodstuffs will be brought here for storage. Now as to living arrangements—” He found Sara in the group, bowed to her. “I would be most pleased if you would accept my hospitality, Mademoiselle.”

“She is my wife,” Temble said truculently.

“Ah, so? Then perhaps you too, sir.”

“It might inconvenience you, M’sieur,” Sara said, “as we shall require two rooms.”

De Beauharnais took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and held it at arm's length to read it. “The note you gave me, Mr. Dolan. Let me see. I have four rooms that can be put in order. I should suggest the following people in that case. Mrs. Temble, Dr. Temble, Mr. Gopala and Mr. Atkinson. You, Mr. Dolan, along with the remaining passenger, Mr. Branch, can remain with the crew can you not?”

“I would prefer that Mr. Branch be given a room,” Temble said.

“That has already been discussed with Mr. Dolan,” De Beauharnais said, “and it was decided that Mr. Branch is in better condition to withstand a... primitive environment. My work crews are helping rebuild the huts now. The day after tomorrow they can begin the construction of huts for your crew. Until that time the crew and you too... gentlemen can sleep out of doors.”

“Where?” Branch asked sullenly.

“That brings up a most serious question. You will forgive me for speaking this way in your presence, Madame Temble. Mr. Dolan, you must keep crew members away from the village women. I would not have thought that men who had so recently been close to death would have had the spirit for amorous adventure. There was one incident last night. I have spoken to the girl. She is quite certain that she inflicted at least one deep scratch on the face of the stranger.”

The crew stood stolidly, not having been able to follow the conversation in English. Mal looked and saw one heavy man with three parallel scratches down the left side of his face to the corner of his mouth. The man slowly grew conscious of all the eyes on him.

“Mr. Dolan, please explain to them what happened. Mrs. Temble, please go inside the house immediately.”

As Dolan explained, the other men moved nervously away from the scratched one. He lifted his fingertips to the scratches on his face. Dolan’s voice was rough and angry.

“Please explain to him that here on Dakeet we do not have time for all the judicial niceties.”

Dolan gave de Beauharnais an odd look, and did as requested. Mal felt the tension in the air, felt it grow to a quivering edge.

De Beauharnais said, almost shyly, “You see, these are my people and they love me and they also expect certain things of me.” With these words he took a small automatic from his side pocket and fired once, seemingly without aim. The man with the scratched face took one unsteady sidestep and stood, legs spread for a moment, before going down. Two drops of blood appeared at the rim of the small hole over his right eye.

The man shuddered against the wide board floor and lay still. De Beauharnais said, “The evidence was sufficient. I pronounce the man dead. If I had not done this thing they would have taken him tonight and death might not have been as pleasant. Mr. Dolan, you will take your crew and Mr. Branch to the east end of the island. Take the body along and bury it there and put up any marker you think advisable. My boys will bring food to you. Report to me on the progress of your salvage operations.”

Temble, Mal and Gopala stood beside de Beauharnais on the porch and watched the group of nine walk down through the village. Four of them carried the body. All the way through the village they were watched by the populace. There was no sound, no jeers, no laughter.

De Beauharnais sighed. “My table is set for five. Will you give me the pleasure of joining me. I have opened the last tin of good coffee.”

While Sara napped, two women sitting on the floor outside her door, Mal walked east down the beach. The tide was high, almost covering the Bjornsan Star. When he reached a small patch of high ground set back from the beach he saw that Dolan had set the men to work cutting bamboo, tying the lengths with vines. The men were stripped to the waist. Branch, with sullen face, was working and sweating with them.

Dolan smiled at Mal, walked and met him sixty feet from where the men were at work. They sat on their heels on the beach. Dolan drew meaningless lines in the sand with a bit of shell.

He said, “You see how I did that? I wanted Branch and Temble split up. The girl doesn’t matter. She’s against it and against Temble anyhow, isn’t she?”

The big red beard was crisp in the sunlight. “Maybe I’m not quick enough,” Mal said, “but I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

Dolan cuffed him roughly on the shoulder. “Use the sense God gave little animals. Count off who knows about the six million dollars out there. The Tembles, you, Branch, Gopala and me. MacLane and the mess boy knew and Torgeson. They’re out of it now. The Farrow woman is out of it. Now, just for the hell of it, try to imagine what would happen if you and me and Gopala were dead. Mrs. Temble is gutless enough so that the doctor could make her keep her mouth shut. The island ship comes. By then Temble has gotten his specimens, the right one anyway, out of the hold. Away he goes. Thank you for your kindness, M’sieur. I’ll send you a Christmas card. But we’re alive. You and Gopala and Sara Temble are witnesses to his agreeing to a one quarter split. The fool know’s he’s got to buy you and Gopala off, too. He must realize that.” He cuffed Mal again, so hard that Mal sprawled over onto the sand. “Can’t you see it? This is a big chess game from here on in. I made a move. I split Branch and Temble. And I’m the boy who takes charge of salvage.”

Mal stood up. “What do you expect to get out of it?”

Dolan towered over him. He scowled. “My full quarter share. I’m going to sleep with both eyes open and my back against a wall, Mal. And, by God, you’re going to do the same. You’re my witness.”

“What makes you think I won’t tell the whole dirty story when I get to customs at Los Angeles or wherever we dock?”

Dolan laughed so hard that he staggered. “Mal, you’re a funny lad. Ye are, Mal. I don’t care what you say to customs. I’m taking my split right here, my full quarter, and I’m staying in the Pacific. I know where I can buy an island. I’ll stock it. I’ll build a teak house on it and I’ll have the best liquor and the fairest women for a thousand miles around. This is my way out, the one I’ve been waiting for. They broke me and they spit on me, on Bob Dolan. I’ve been waiting. Now it’s going to be my turn to spit. They better all stand back. If you’ve got the brains God gave geese you’ll come in with me, pry all you can out of Temble by threatening to tell de Beauharnais. That little Frenchy, if he knew about it, would find some law where he could grab the whole pile. The Temble woman likes you. Bring her along if you go for that sort. We’ll all take what we can get and let Temble, Branch and Gopala figure out what to do with what’s left.”

Mal looked out to sea. He took a long time answering. “Maybe, Bob, you’ve figured it all out a way that looks good to you. Hell, that much money would start anybody’s heart thumping. But there’s one factor you’ve overlooked.”

“And what would that be?” Dolan asked scornfully.

“Gina Farrow. She wasn’t washed overboard. At least not alive. Her throat was cut. So you have to know who did that, because whoever did it wants the whole works for himself. And did Welling fall, or was he pushed? Could be the same person. And if anybody has already gone that far, a few more aren't going to bother him.”

After Mal was a hundred yards down the beach he looked back. Bob Dolan was still standing in the same position, scratching the back of his head with one big hand.

Sara lay in a patch of shade wearing the cheap print dress which had come out of the smiling A. Hayaka’s stock. Mal sat a few feet from her, his back against a palm trunk, his hands locked around his knees. Through an opening in the brush he could look out across the bay to where, at low tide, the outrigger canoes were clustered around the hulk of the Star like insects around a bit of food.

Bob Dolan stood atop the wreck, his beard a pinpoint glint of fire at that distance. The sailors had rigged a makeshift block and tackle hoist, using a weighted canvas hatch cover for a sling. The native boys would dive down into the water in the hold and transfer cases to the sling. The sailors would haul away until the sling was above the deck level and then the cases, one by one, would be transferred to a canoe. Each loaded canoe was paddled to the village beach where the native women waited to carry the cases up to the residency.

“Mal?” she said softly.

“Darling.”

“Do you feel like I do? No yesterday. No tomorrow.”

“That’s what an island like this is supposed to do to you. But it doesn’t do it for long. Just for the first week or so. Then the heat and the monotony and the flies and the sun glare begin to get you down. A year and you’re island-happy, talking to yourself.”

“How about you, Mal? What is it about you? It pu2zles me. You’re all mixed up in this and yet you’re not part of it. You’re sort of a... watcher.”

“I’m having an emotional convalescence, maybe. I don’t know how to explain it to you. I saw so much death and so much suffering concentrated into a few months that all this... it seems artificial, somehow. Like Roger and Dolan and Branch are playing some sort of a game for backward children.”

“And me too?”

“No, Sara. Not you. You’re the only real part of, and you don’t even belong in the script. How is Roger acting?”

“He’s forgotten I’m alive. He’s put me off in a little compartment in his mind labeled 'For Future Action’. He’s frantic because Dolan is keeping him out of the salvage operations. You’ve seen how strained his eyes look. He’s borrowed binoculars from de Beauharnais and he watches them out there every moment they’re working. I think he’s going a little mad, Malcolm.”

“His boy, Branch, is out there.”

“He doesn’t trust Tom Branch. He didn’t trust Welling either. He got them, you know, by putting a blind ad in the papers. 'Young man. Profit and adventure.’ That sort of thing. He interviewed hundreds.”

“And let the good ones go, eh?”

“Yes. And losing Gina seemed to do something to him. She was strong, you know. He was beginning to depend on her. Now he’s alone. He knows that I’ve got nothing but contempt for this whole plan of his. I never really understood Roger before. That terrible ambition of his.”

“How did you happen to marry him?”

“I was a coed at Northeastern. A miserable little sophomore. Seven years ago. My people were killed in an airline crash and... Roger was there. Sweet, gentle understanding. Sometimes you have to have someone to lean on, you know. I think he agreed to bring Gina and me along on this trip as sort of insurance against anything Branch and Welling might try. I guess he thought chivalry wasn’t dead. It is, you know. Quite thoroughly dead.”

Mal thought of Gina, of how he had last seen her. “It seems to be,” he said softly.

“Let’s walk, Mal,” she said, getting to her feet. He marveled at her way of making every move with coordinated grace.

As they headed west along the beach she said, “There are thirteen of us, Mal. And so quiet. Like that usual part of a symphony where you wait and wait for the music to crash out.”

“Just before the coda.”

“What’s going to happen, Mal? Somebody else is going to die. They are, aren’t they. Don’t let it be you, Malcolm. Please don’t let it be you.”

“I'll consider the request.”

“Don’t joke about it. Take me seriously.”

“I do. Always.”

“I keep hoping and hoping that nothing more will happen. I want to go home and I want to leave Roger and divorce him and marry you.” She blushed and looked away. “I forgot. You haven’t even asked me.”

“I don’t want to ask you. Not here and now. Not in this comic opera atmosphere of treasure and dusky maidens. I want a scene with piano in the background, holding your hand across a table, with you wearing flowers I’ve bought for you. And before I ask you I want to learn how to come alive again. I want to know what I’m going to do with my life.”

“Our life.”

“All right, you forward wench. Our life.”

The small cranky gasoline generator quit that night and the table was set for five under the hard white glare of a Coleman lantern hung from an overhead beam. It made hard shadows on the floor. De Beauharnais, looking more rested than at any time since their arrival five days before, sat at the head of the table. Gopala and Malcolm sat at his left facing Sara and Roger across the wide table. The night was still and muggy and one of the house boys pulled on the string which moved the swinging fan back and forth under the lantern making a metronome shadow which swept from one end of the table to the other and back again, slowly.

The meal was a rich, highly-spiced curry, which Mr. Gopala, for one, ate with great enthusiasm. As he wrapped the bits of spiced rice in the green leaves and popped them into his mouth, he raved to de Beauharnais about the beauties of the island.

“Unspoiled, untouched,” he said. “A gem. A jewel of the Pacific.”

“If you had seen Dakeet forty years ago, my friend,” said the Frenchman, “you would not say that. A few ships had touched here in the days of sail. They left their usual gifts to the island. Diseases that rot these peoples. For generations they were sullen. Now we are bringing them back to life. It is a long process. You ask why, and how France can afford philanthropy. It is not exactly that. At one time there were good pearls here. The beds have been seeded again. Another five years, maybe ten, we shall begin to get those fine pearls once more. And these people grow strong again. They will dive for us and gladly.”

Sara, as always in Roger’s presence, ate quietly, rarely lifting her eyes from her plate. Roger Temble had lost weight. His hand shook as he ate.

Mr. Gopala leaned back from his empty plate with a small, satisfied belch. “Now tell me, M’sieur, is it possible to leave this island in an outrigger canoe? Can any port be reached?”

“There is an island without inhabitants, smaller than this one, almost forty miles to the north. That is the only place that can be readied. It is without water. Sometimes my people go there for the fishing when they know the weather will be calm for many days. In the proper season. Why do you ask?” De Beauharnais smiled. “Are you tiring of my hospitality?”

Gopala held up both hands in protest. “But no! It is just a small matter of curiosity. I do not wish to...” He frowned, then beamed at Mal. “Ah, I remember your American word. I do not wish to snitch. But I saw something which puzzled me. I have done much walking around your island, of course. Mr. Dolan and Mr. Branch, they have from somewhere acquired one of the outrigger canoes. At dawn I saw them repairing it. They have paddles. They seemed to be talking earnestly about some plan, but I did not wish to approach near enough to find out. It seemed to me that they could only be thinking of escape. I should not wish them to attempt something foolish and die because land is too far away.”

Mal glanced at Temble. The man had a fork raised halfway to his lips. The fork was motionless in the air for long seconds, and then he lowered it back to the plate. He looked pale under his tan.

De Beauharnais said, “I have talked to Mr. Dolan many times, Mr. Gopala. He is a capable ship’s officer. He has looked at my charts. I am positive that he would not attempt anything so silly. You must be mistaken. They must have the canoe for some other purpose. Maybe they wish to try their luck at fishing.”

Temble laughed. It was a hard spasm in his throat. “Yes,” he gasped, “I think they want to try their luck at fishing. At fishing for...” He looked warily at de Beauharnais and stopped talking abruptly.

Gopala said quickly, “Oh, I forgot that... other matter, Dr. Temble. I can see how they might hope to...”

“Shut up, Gopala!” Temble said.

Gopala smiled. “Ah, of course. How stupid I am!”

“What is this all about, please?” the Frenchman asked coldly.

“Nothing,” said Temble. “Nothing at all.” He pushed back his chair and without further comment he left the room. De Beauharnais shrugged.

“Forgive his rudeness,” Gopala said. “He has been under considerable strain, you understand.”

“Of course, of course,” de Beauharnais murmured. He clapped his hands for the house boy to bring the coffee.

Mal had taken the first sip of his coffee when he heard, as did the others, a distant cry from within the house, the thud of a fall. De Beauharnais sprang up, dabbing his lips with the napkin. He ran toward the inner doorway and stopped abruptly, slowly raised his hands and backed away. “What is the idea of this?” he demanded in a shrill, indignant voice.

Roger Temble, an automatic pistol in his hand, aiming directly at de Beauharnais, advanced into the room. His brown eyes had a staring look behind the clear lenses.

“Don’t try to stop me. I went into your rooms to find one of your guns, M’sieur. One of your boys tried to stop me. He will be all right, I’m sure. Don’t follow me and don’t try to send anyone after me. I’ll be back soon.” He moved around the Frenchman to the doorway that led onto the porch. They heard the screen door slap shut, heard his feet thud against the packed dirt as he ran off into the darkness.

Mr. Gopala inserted a cigarette into his filter holder. He lit it with the gold lighter he had managed to cling to throughout the shipwreck. He said, “M’sieur, I took the liberty of borrowing a tiny bit of petrol for my lighter.”

De Beauharnais put his hands on his slim hips. “What is there that I do not understand? What sort of madmen have been wrecked on my reef? My apologies to you, Madame Temble.”

“I think,” said Sara in a small thin voice, “that my husband has gone to kill Mr. Dolan and Mr. Branch.”

Wide-eyed house servants had appeared in both doorways. De Beauharnais gave his orders in the multi-voweled tongue of the islands. He said to those at the table, “Kindly stay where you are.” He left the room. He was back in five minutes wearing a face net, carrying a small calibre rifle and two revolvers.

His smile was tight. “So long as we deal with madmen, we must act accordingly.” He handed one revolver to Mal. “You will come with me.” He handed the other to Gopala who took it gingerly. “And you will stay with Madame.” He gave a curt bow in her direction. “Forgive me. I intend to bring him back with me. If he does not come willingly, I shall harm him.”

Five boys were waiting at the foot of the porch steps. They all carried fish spears and wore the long flat trading knives. They were excited. They fell in behind de Beauharnais and Mal as the two men headed for the beach to walk up to the new encampment at the eastern end of the island.