Venom: A Thriller in Paradise (The Thriller in Paradise Series Book 3) (14 page)

When Cobb answered, “We’re not here to sightsee, Monsieur LeBlanc,” Chazz stifled a snort of delight, visions of Takamura gawking in shop windows at displays of black pearl jewelry and shell necklaces. Cobb gave him a sharp look. “There was another crew member of the
Ocean Mother.
We want to know who that was, and what happened to him.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” A young policeman in a baggy khaki uniform brought in coffee. He set down the tray and smiled at the visitors as if his only hope in life was to serve coffee to such distinguished and powerful foreigners. He almost backed out of the room, he was staring so hard. “Thank you, René,” the fat policeman said, and the other nodded and closed the door behind him.

“He is young,” LeBlanc suggested, as if youth explained such obvious interest. “He has considerable enthusiasm.”

“Yes,” Cobb said, picking up his cup. “I have a sergeant of similar disposition. Too much television, I believe.”

“So it is here also,” LeBlanc said. “And there is very little crime in Tahiti, you see. Only five gendarmes in all of Raïatéa. Small force for a place so large. Uturoa is the second largest city in all of Polynésie.”

“Really?” Chazz asked.

“Twenty-five hundred people,” LeBlanc said proudly. “Capital of the Leeward Islands. High school, dispensary. Two doctors. Very civilized.”

“How long have you been out here?” Chazz asked.

“Twenty years now,” LeBlanc said.

“You never wanted to go back to France?”

“What?” LeBlanc was surprised. “Of course. I go back every year, for vacation. But this is my home.”

They drank coffee in companionable silence. A large fan circled lazily overhead, redistributing the relatively clear air at head level and replacing it with smoky air from near the ceiling. LeBlanc’s cigarette burned itself up in his ashtray. A long straight column of smoke gradually spread until it hit the level of the fan, where it wavered and dissipated. The cigarette crumbled to gray ash. The policeman lit another, which he placed carefully in the ashtray and promptly forgot. The tray was full of expired cigarettes, all apparently forgotten. This was clearly a ritual. LeBlanc never seemed to inhale from the cigarette.

After a time he spoke. “You are taking the five o’clock flight?” Of course he would know the interisland schedule like the contents of his wallet.

Cobb nodded and set down his empty cup. “We’ll be at someone’s house, a judge, I think.”

“Quite. Queneau is an interesting man. I’m sure you will learn much.”

“Good coffee,” Cobb said. “I wonder if
you
have anything to tell us?”

“Aita pe’ape’a.”
But he set down his own cup and reached for a large manila file folder on the side of his desk, which he opened and fell to examining with intense concentration. “My notes,” he explained, looking up once. The sheets were mostly handwritten in light purple ink. One or two had photographs clipped to them.

“Mmm,” Lieutenant Takamura murmured. Since he couldn’t read French anyway, he stopped trying to decipher LeBlanc’s writing upside down.

LeBlanc read on, turning pages from time to time. Chazz finished his own coffee. He stood up and stretched, then walked to the window and looked down on the Avenue Braut. The blinds were vertical wooden slats, one of which Chazz pushed aside to watch the traffic.

“Well,” LeBlanc said, closing the folder. “I have asked the questions you asked me to ask. Many people in Uturoa saw the crew. Many people met with them. Many people had drinks with them. Some of these people were Tahitian people, some were Chinese people, some were even French people. Alas, not everyone in Raïatéa is anxious to talk to the police. Especially the police who are French. Not that we have political troubles in the Territory of course, but there is a feeling for independence and some resentment of our policy of atomic testing. It does not amount to much, some idle grumbling, really, but it causes a certain reticence. As I say, Queneau will be able to help you. Very nice fellow, very sharp. He can find you a cooperative Tahitian if anyone can.”

“Good,” Cobb paused, picking his way through a diplomatic difficulty. “There were some suggestion that the French government, that is, might not have been pleased with the
Ocean Mother
visit.”

LeBlanc dismissed these “suggestions” with a wave of a pudgy hand. “No, no, Monsieur Takamura, the French government is not involved in any way. Believe me,” he leaned forward earnestly, “the French government has learned its lesson. A difficult lesson, no? France is a free country, a democracy too, like the United States. France does not take rash actions. Besides, the vessel in question was registered in Canada, I believe. And France has long-standing historical ties with Canada.
Ocean Mother
was not an American ship at all.”

“No, of course not. Still, could not agents of the French government have acted in accordance with French policy without, oh, say official sanction?”

“What you are suggesting is ridiculous,” LeBlanc said firmly. “We are trying as hard as you are, Monsieur, to find the eighth crew member of this ship. French citizens were involved. The honor of France is at stake.” He did not sound as if he believed this. Chazz drifted back to his seat and settled into it with a sigh.

“A long flight?” LeBlanc asked sympathetically.

“Not so bad,” Chazz answered. “I took a nap.”

LeBlanc escorted them to the door and shook their hands. His palm was slightly damp and warm, and his handshake was more affable than the situation seemed to warrant, but perhaps it was only a difference in culture. “Someone will meet your plane in Raïatéa," he assured them. The staircase was broad, and he watched them all the way down to the main floor.

“Not what you could call forthcoming,” Chazz muttered. They stood in front of an open cafe looking at the menu. “I can’t believe these prices.”

“Four dollars for a cup of coffee doesn’t seem unreasonable,” Cobb said. “After all, it is French roast.”

They sat at a small marble table and spread butter on croissants. Hinano beer was cheaper than coffee. The pastry was excellent. The beer was adequate.

“So you feel our colleague M. LeBlanc was less than candid?” Takamura asked. “But ‘Sometimes difficult to pick up pumpkin with one finger.’”

“I’m not going to fall for that,” Chazz said.

Takamura smiled. Chazz ate ferociously. Takamura nibbled. Chazz slapped down the remains of his croissant. Cobb smiled. Chazz said, “All right, what the hell does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Cobb said innocently. “I thought the same. But then, you, also, are not being forthcoming.”

“Sharp, you are, you Buddhaheaded devil. Don’t miss a thing. LeBlanc’s files. Photographs.”

“I saw.”

“One of them looked familiar.”

“Mmm?”

“Hobart.” Chazz picked up the last piece of croissant and examined it before devouring it.

“The journalist? Really. Interesting.”

“More than that.” Chazz counted out 700 CFP and put them on the table.

“Yes?”

“The name under the photograph was not Hobart.”

“Ah.” Cobb finished his own pastry and wiped his lips with the linen napkin. “I suppose we should wander back to the center of town and find a truck to the airport. It’s almost four.”

“I suppose.”

They walked a few blocks in aimless conversation, pausing from time to time to look in the shop windows. Along the Boulevard Pomare, the boutiques could have been in any city in the world. Along the quay, the yachts floated lightly. The smell of copra was very strong.

Outside a travel agency, Cobb looked at a poster of Bora Bora. “Very pretty,” he said. “Two blocks back, on the other side of the street.”

Chazz looked thoughtful and turned slowly. “Yes. Our friend from the police station. René.” He imitated LeBlanc’s accent. “‘He has considerable enthusiasm.’”

“The man he is talking with. Does he look familiar?”

“Not to me.”

“As I thought. I don’t know him either.”

They found the market again, now picking up speed as siesta ended. A series of trucks were lined up, spitting diesel fumes and loud Tahitian music. They climbed into the back of the first one and a few minutes later were on their way out of town.

Faaa Airport was gearing up for evening flights. The domestic section was crowded with locals going home to the out islands and tour groups headed for resorts on Mooréa and Bora Bora. The Raïatéa flight seemed to carry more locals and fewer tourists.

“It says here,” Cobb read from a brochure, “that Raïatéa has very few beaches and so is not a favorite with tourism.”

“That may be true,” Chazz said, “but it does have someone who is starting a business extracting vitamins from seaweed in conjunction with an oyster farm. His processes are of interest to a couple of the researchers at the DRC. I have a meeting set up with him tomorrow while you go sleuthing after our mysterious crew member.”

“Hmm. And look who is on the flight with us.”

Cobb leaned back against the airline counter and looked at a man sitting on a plastic seat reading a French version of
Time
magazine.

“Peter Lorre?” Chazz said.

“Very funny, Dr, Koenig. Our old friend René was talking to him on the street in downtown Papeete. Does he look to you like a policeman?”

“Let me see. Brown shoes, scuffed and worn at the heels. One lace is loose. His socks are faded yellow and sagging. Inexpensive tan pants with splashes of some reddish dirt on them, although there is no dirt on the shoes. A baggy orange shirt worn outside the pants. Prescription sunglasses. Aha! A mustache, and look, it’s gray, like his hair under a floppy straw hat. Definitely police.”

“And under the baggy orange shirt?” Cobb asked softly.

Chazz screwed up his face. Somehow this made his beard seem to cover more of it than usual. “Don’t tell me. A gun?”

“Very good, Dr. Koenig.”

Chazz opened his eyes. “You’re kidding. He really has got a gun?”

“Belt holster, left side.”

“Why would he carry a gun? LcBlanc said there’s almost no crime here in Papeete, even less in the islands. Only five policemen on the whole island of Raïatéa.”

“Mmm-hmm. We might go ask him why he is carrying.”

“Good idea.” Chazz did not move.

“You think it is a good idea?” Cobb asked after a minute’s silence.

“No, I don’t. It’s none of our business. He probably isn’t even going on this flight. He belongs to airport security or something. Why are we so jumpy?”

But he was on the same flight, shuffling in line behind them. The plane was narrow, a twin-prop ATR·42. The armed man sat three seats back. Chazz stood up to put his flight case in the overhead rack and glanced at him. The man was still reading
Time.
He had given no indication that he was interested in Chazz and Cobb. But he had had no trouble with airport security either. “There are far too many mysterious strangers turning up these days,” Chazz said. “Besides a ship full of dead people—”

“And one survivor.”

“If you want to call her a survivor, yes. Then a foreigner and a murdered woman.”

“And a French journalist, who may or not be named Hobart,” Cobb added.

“The name looked like Fabergé. Like the eggs.”

“I was wondering when you were going to share the name in LeBlanc’s file. Was it a picture of Hobart?”

Chazz shrugged. “Probably someone else. It wasn’t a very good photograph. Looked like a personnel record. And don’t forget the consular official.”

“You would call him a stranger?”

“I didn’t know him. Did you?”

“Touché. He may not be who he says he is. And now a man with a gun. A lot of mysterious strangers for a simple mass murder.”

The plane roared into life and lumbered to the end of the runway. The noise was terrific and discouraged conversation. Once off the ground, it was quieter, and Chazz settled down for another nap. Beside him Cobb looked out the window for a few minutes. Then he too settled his porkpie hat over his eyes and went to sleep.

The flight lasted less than an hour. They were banking in over the lagoon, and Chazz and Cobb were both awake. The mountain in the middle of the island was wrapped in rain clouds. Chazz had forgotten about the man behind them. “I wonder what surprises we’ll find here,” he said.

“I wonder.”

PATRIA

She was pushing Orli in the pram across the Safeway parking lot when she thought she saw him again, a well-dressed man in a light tan tropical suit hurrying across the lot toward the library. He could have been a computer salesman or insurance agent, although there was something fluid about the way he moved that suggested a military background. Because of the way he ran, she shook her head, certain she was wrong. Besides, this man had gray, almost white hair. Still he had the same general outline, the same gestalt as that reporter. Hobart.

He did not notice her as he jogged by, she was sure. His eyes did not glance her way, there was no hesitation in his step. She was bending over Orli, adjusting her sunbonnet as she watched his back recede toward Hardy Street. No, he wasn’t really like the reporter. His walk was different, his way of carrying his body. She couldn’t tell whether he had a tattoo of an octopus, of course, because he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a suit jacket, but she doubted it. This man was not the sort to have a tattoo. Not cut from the same cloth at all.

Later when she was talking about it, she thought she must have been wrong. “It was uncanny for a moment, Kimiko. You know how you see someone on the street from behind and you’re sure you know them, then they turn around and they’re a stranger? It was like that, except I saw him from the front. Even when he was up close I thought it was him. But there were differences. This guy’s cheeks were a little fuller. And he had a small mustache.”

Kimiko laughed. “You should be a detective,” she said.

They were drinking green tea at one of the four small tables in the tiny garden of a Japanese restaurant in Hanamaulu. The garden was exquisite, filled with moss and stone and bamboo and serenity. A black pine twisted above a small pool. In the water three
koi
of the variety called
kin matsuba
, golden fish with the brown and golden edged scales of the pinecone pattern, floated near the surface, waiting for tidbits of bread. This was one of Cobb Takamura’s favorite places, but it was the first time Patria had ever been here.