“I wish it were possible. Yes, he was present that tragic night. And then he vanished.”

  “I’ll find him,” Durell said.

  “Let us hope you find nothing else.”

  “Such as?”

  “Death, mynheer. You, too, could disappear, like Dr. Van Arden. No one in Salangap has seen him since.”

  THREE

  Bettina Hansen stepped reluctantly from her bath in the guest wing of the Consulate, and toweled herself before a tall mirror set into the wall of Indian tiles. At least, she thought, these rooms were a little like home. Her first glimpse of Salangap had been depressing; but she felt better now. Almost hopeful. Perhaps things would work out, if she could only learn the truth, and know what to do. If she could only trust Wayne.

  She considered herself critically in the mirror, and giggled softly to herself. Last year, when that fool cattleman from the Argentine gave her that yellow Cadillac as a gift for one night’s date in New York, Chet Manley of the Record referred to her as the most expensive courtesan since Madame Pompadour. She had been flattered by the remark, not insulted. She hoped it was true. She had something to sell, after all—not just her body, which was the primary attraction, of course, to idiots like Raoul; but there was her glamor, the publicity attendant on any appearance she made in the world of nightclubs and theaters where she lived.

  Fortunately, poor Greg hadn’t seen the item in the Record, or at least had never written about it in his unhappy, irritating letters. But she was sure that someone—some dear, darling friend—must have sent it on to him. But Greg, in addition to being so handsomely rich, was too much of a gentleman to have mentioned it.

  Bettina smoothed her hands down over her slender, curved hips. Really, she hadn’t changed at all in ten years. If she had, it was for the better. There was maturity, yet firmness, in the muscles of her body and the sleek hollows and uplifting curves of satin skin, rosy after the bath, tingling after the astringent she had used.

  It was air-conditioned in the Consulate, thank God. There was a small screened window in the bath, and she could look out from where she stood and see the manicured lawns, the low white stone wall, and Government Road curving downhill toward the town.

  It was growing dark. The sunset, an incredible blaze of insane color over a silky sea, was of no interest to her. She bit her lip, thinking of Greg spending all his time here, dying here from some horrible, crazy native boy’s knife.

  And then she smiled. She decided that Sam Durell wouldn’t give her any trouble. She could handle him.

  The knock on her outer door at that moment was followed by quick, impatient footsteps across the bedroom.

  “Betts?”

  Bettina snatched for a towel, missed, and then looked helplessly at Wayne Twill’s tall, handsome figure with mock exasperation. Her small, perfectly rounded body looked pink in the fading evening light. She caught her small, white teeth in her lower lip and gasped, “Oh, Wayne—”

  He made a small sound and moved toward her impulsively. Laughing, she slid from his attempted embrace and caught up her robe to cover herself.

  “Now, Wayne, you shouldn’t be doing this—”

  “Betts, I’d almost forgotten how you—”

  “Please, Wayne.”

  “Don’t play coy with me, sweetheart. Come here.” His voice was ragged. He stood tall and blond and muscular, very rugged in an aging collegiate way, very sure of himself. His smile curled and made dimples in his tanned cheek. He was dressed for dinner in a white jacket, and he held himself gracefully, with strength and assurance.

  “You shouldn’t just barge in here like this, Wayne.”

  “I’m in charge now. Nobody will interrupt us.”

  “And Durell?”

  “He’s busy elsewhere.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing whatever he came here to do. Don’t sidetrack me now, Betts. Please. I’ve waited much too long to see you again. I love you. I always have. As soon as we decently can, we’ll be married. We’ve waited a long time, honey.”

  “You make it sound simple. Perhaps too much so.”

  Her voice, her face, her manner had cooled intangibly. Looking at him, at his handsome strength, Bettina felt a new twinge of uneasy fear. She had known Wayne Twill a long time. They were kids together, back on Long Island, in that horrible suburb. She and Wayne, in their separate ways, had clawed, schemed and fought to lift themselves from monotony to spectacular success in her case, to competence and smooth polish in his. They understood each other. There were no illusions between them. They had been in love in their teens, she had been his girl since that first night long ago in Papa’s workshop, when they had made love fumblingly on the bench. She’d been his mistress for a year after she began her career on the stage, and then they had agreed to let each other seek money and glamor in separate ways, tacitly understanding the cold necessities that dictated their individual choices.

  Now they were together again. Bettina loved him. She knew Twill for what he was; and she knew him and wanted him as she had known and wanted no other man in the world. She knew Wayne loved her. But she also knew she had come much farther than he. She was richer, now. And he wanted her wealth and expected to share it as something they had bargained for long ago.

  She didn’t like that. She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted now. She wanted to rest and feel safe; she knew that much. But whether safety was with Wayne could not be decided yet. There were too many questions to be answered first.

  She moved past him into the bedroom. As if he sensed her sudden reservations, he did not reach out to touch her. He seemed content to stand there, lounging easily in the doorway, watching her dress for dinner with almost a marital intimacy. Gregory Hansen might never have existed as her husband for the past five years. Yet he was here, standing between them now, at this very moment.

  “What is it, Betts?” Wayne asked quietly. He smiled, but not with his eyes. “Something is troubling you.”

  “Yes. Naturally.”

  “I didn’t think you’d greet me quite like this. Do you know how hard it is for me to take it easy this way?”

  She smiled. “If I know you, Wayne, you’ve had quite a harem among the government girls here.”

  “Betts, I’ve dreamed of today for so long—”

  Her voice flattened. “Yes. I suppose so. I’m sorry. But what did you do to bring it about, Wayne?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. We have to talk about it. We can’t just ignore him.”

  “Him?”

  “Gregory,” she said impatiently. "How did he die?”

  “But you know all about that,” he said.

  “Do I?”

  She turned and moved toward the window. The sky beyond was a dark lilac, and an enormous, incredible moon hung over the edge of the warm sea. The wind, coming through the wooden slats of the blinds, smelled strongly of damp, steaming earth, strange growths, and the pungency of the human habitations of Salangap. From somewhere down there came a faint cracking sound, followed by a low thud, then another crack.

  “What was that, Wayne?” she asked.

  “The Xu Bhien people,” he nodded. “Trang was driven into the jungle, but some of his boys still give themselves a workout with grenades every evening about this time.”

  “How horrible.”

  He laughed. “You’re safe here, my darling.”

  She looked at him with level eyes. “Am I?”

  “You have a tendency to talk in riddles, sweetheart. I’ll have to break you of that habit when we’re married.”

  “You were never so insistent about marriage before.”

  “That was different. It was impossible for us then.”

  “Yes. Now I’m rich. And you’re ready to marry me.”

  He was irritated. “What is this?” In the gathering darkness, his face was suddenly harsh and angular. “What are you getting at, Betts?”

  “I want to know how Greg died,” she said quietly. “You already know. It was a crazy Malay boy who stuck a knife in his gut.” Wayne sounded savage. “What else is there?”

  “And you shot the boy.”

  “I was lucky, that’s all.”

  “And you killed him.”

  ‘‘So I’m a better shot than I thought. So what?”

  “So now he can’t tell who hired him.”

  Twill exhaled a long, slow breath. He was silent and didn’t move for a moment. Bettina touched her throat with cool fingers, turned from the window toward the dresser against the opposite wall, and thought better of going there because then she would have to pass too close to Wayne’s tall, immobile figure.

  “Bettina,” he said finally. “Do you think I killed him?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “You think I hired the boy to kill Greg, so you’d be a widow? And rich? And I could have you?”

  “For Greg’s money, yes,” she said.

  “I see.” He spoke softly. “We thought we could do anything and later keep our bargain, untouched by what we had to do to get what we wanted. But it’s changed you. The things you did left a mark on you. I don’t know what put these ideas into your head.”

  “Maybe it was Sam Durell,” she whispered. “He always refers to it as murder. Not assassination, or a tragedy, or any of the other words used to cover up the facts of violent death. He just calls it murder.”

  “He seems to have gotten under your skin, sweetheart.”

  “I’m afraid of Durell,” Bettina said. “He’s after you, Wayne.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “He thinks you killed Greg. For me. To have me and Greg’s money. I’m sure he knows all about us. A man like Durell—he keeps his mouth shut, but he’s so dangerous, he knows so much. ... It was frightening to spend all that time with him on the trip here. We weren’t sent out together by accident, I’m sure of that.”

  Twill’s laughter was like the soft breakage of glass in the darkness. “You’re tired and upset. You’ll feel better after cocktails and dinner. We really have a fine cook here—Greg was particular about food, you know. You’ll be all right after you settle down.” He moved toward the door and nodded. “I’m sorry if I startled you by rushing things—coming in here like this. But I can’t help it. I love you so.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  “Yes.”

  When Wayne Twill was gone, she reached back in her mind over everything he had said, and she realized then that he hadn’t once denied her charge that he had murdered Gregory Hansen.

  FOUR

  The Consul’s office was a large, high-ceilinged room off the main foyer entrance to the Consulate. There was rattan furniture, an air conditioner in the window nearest the desk, and screened French doors opening onto a small garden. The desk itself was of massive mahogany, in Spanish style imported from the Philippines, and the filing cabinets against the wall nearby matched the wood in grain and polish. Flanking the desk and the leather swivel chair was the national flag, a large photograph of the President, and on the other hand the Lone Star flag of Texas, where Hansen and his oil wealth had originated.

  The Consulate rated only a six-man Marine guard under the command of the Military Attache, a stiffnecked young lieutenant who took his duties very seriously. A corporal sat dozing outside the office, seated in the foyer beyond the tall, double-leafed doors. Durell had spoken to MacFarren, the lieutenant, some time before. There had been no difficulty, even at this hour long after midnight, in gaining access to Hansen’s office.

  Sam’s evening had been a busy one. There were three secretaries attached to the Consulate, two American girls and one Filipino, and he had gone across the compound to their bungalow quarters to talk long and earnestly with them. He had learned nothing new about the details of the night the Consul had been killed.

  Afterward, he spent an hour going through Hansen’s bedroom, searching quickly, methodically, and completely. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. Wayne Twill had elected to remain in his original quarters while serving as Acting Consul, so there was no problem during the time he spent in the dead man’s room. But he drew another blank here, too.

  He did not know what he was looking for. Anything, or nothing. He would know it if he found it, however.

  He was aware of sounds in the night outside. Salan-gap was under a military curfew, but the life of the city and the jungle could not be stifled by guns. Somewhere on Government Road, leading down the hill toward town, a light tank snorted and its diesel engine coughed, and then it rumbled off toward the harbor. There were no more grenade incidents. Nominally, the city slept. But under the heat of the night, like the hidden ground swell of the sea, there was the humming vibration of dark activity, a kind of jungle tension.

  The telephone rang on the desk.

  “U.S. Consulate,” he said.

  A woman’s voice spoke with a French accent. “I wish to speak to M’sieu Durell, today arrived from the U.S.A.”

  “You are speaking to him,’’ Durell said.

  “Oh?”

  He waited.

  “How can I be sure?” the woman said.

  “Please take my word for it,” Durell said. He looked at the closed, double door, thinking of the foyer and the sleepy Marine guard. He looked up at the ceiling and thought of Wayne Twill, and Bettina Hansen. He wondered if they were in bed together. He felt no envy for either of them. He moved the telephone stand a little closer, listening for a telltale click that might indicate the line was bugged, or that an extension had been lifted for eavesdropping. He didn’t hear anything at all. He said finally: “What can I do for you?”

  “I am Madame Phan,” the woman said. “You do not know me, of course, but I know why you are here in Salangap, Mr. Durell.”

  “Everybody seems to know.”

  “You have a sense of humor? That is good.”

  “Some people don’t like it, Madame Phan,” he said.

  “Perhaps not. I am happy to have been able to reach you are so conveniently at this hour, mynheer. It is, of course, about your business here in Salangap.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Hugo, of course. Dr. Van Arden. You wish to find him?”

  “I want to talk to him, yes.” Durell decided the voice was not the voice of a young woman, but she was not old, either. The accent, though French, was also peculiarly American, as if she had spent some time in the United States, after learning English from a Frenchman, perhaps.

  “Can you tell me where Dr. Van Arden is?”

  “Perhaps I can help you,” she said. “Come to the House of Twenty-Nine Pleasures tomorrow. We will have lunch together.”

  “Fine,” Durell said.

  “At one o’clock, then. You will not forget?”

  “You know I won’t.”

  There came a click on the line, and a humming, and then Durell heard the office door open and he put down the telephone with a careful gesture and looked up to see Wayne Twill standing there.

  The Acting Consul had taken off his white dinner jacket and black tie, and loosened the collar of his shirt, but otherwise he seemed no more ready for bed than Durell. He looked angry, flushed with emotion as well as liquor, perhaps, and for a moment his mouth opened and closed as if he wanted to speak and then changed his mind about it.

  Finally he said, “What in hell are you doing here?”

  “Looking for things,” Durell said calmly. “Sit down and relax, Twill. You know I have the authority to check anything I wish. Have a cigarette. Or another drink. Is the widow comfortable?”

  “Now, look here—”

  Durell’s voice hardened. “Sit down, Twill.”

  Twill came all the way into the office and closed the doors behind him. He looked like a sulky, spoiled boy.

  “You don’t have to snoop around here,” Twill said. “You have only to ask me for anything you want.”

  “Do you have all the answers?”

  “I don’t know your questions.” Twill sat down, fished for a cigarette, and lit it. His strong hands shook slightly as he held his gold, initialed fighter. “Who was that on the phone? Was it for me?”

  “No,” Durell said.

  Twill blew out angry smoke. “I have a right to know.”

  “It was a Madame Phan. I made a luncheon date with her at a place called the House of Twenty-Nine Pleasures. Do you know it?”

  “Hell, she owns it. Everybody knows about it.”

  “It’s well patronized?”

  “I’ve been there once or twice. Crazy food.”

  Durell laughed suddenly. “Don’t stand up there in that tall saddle with me, Wayne. What are you frightened about?”

  “I’m not frightened. I’m sore. What do you expect me to be? Betts told me why you’re here, snooping around, thinking I killed Hansen.”

  “Well, did you?” Durell asked.

  “God damn you—”

  “Well?”

  “No! If that’s the crazy idea you’ve got, you’re wasting time, money and energy on nothing at all!”

  “Who hired the Malay boy, then?”

  Twill looked away, then at Durell again. He quieted down with a visible effort. “What makes you so sure anybody hired him? He was just a crazy native with a built-in head of steam, some grievance or other, some resentment against Greg, or against any American. It’s not uncommon out here, you know.”

  Durell’s voice hardened. “Stop blathering, Twill. I haven’t got the time or patience to listen to it.”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  “You know who I am. You’ve got a loose mouth, and all of Salangap seems to know who I am, too. That doesn’t make things easy or comfortable for me.”

  “Are you accusing me—?”

  “Sit down,” Durell said sharply, as Twill half rose.

 

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