Devil-Devil (21 page)

27

ROCKFALL

Kella walked down the track from the mission school to the river bank. He had spent the night at the school after performing the straight path ceremony for the ghost-caller. He walked through the trees to the site of Lofty Herman's former grave at the foot of the cliff.

A protesting Solomon Bulko lumbered mutinously after the police sergeant, complaining that he had to start teaching in half an hour's time. The headmaster was wearing long black trousers and a white shirt. He was reacting with petulance to the branches whipping into his sweating face.

‘I went into teaching to get away from this nature shit, man,' he complained loudly as he plodded after the police sergeant. ‘What are you trying to do, return me to my fucking roots?'

The early morning sunshine seeped through the branches and dappled the ground. Kella reached the rockfall where the skeleton had been found. He examined the scattered stones there carefully. He had noticed when Sister Conchita had first brought him to the scene of the earthquake that some of the rocks were freshly scratched and scarred, but he had been too busy getting out of range of the rifle shots with the sister to pay much attention to them at the time.

Now, bearing in mind the ghost-caller's confession that he and Senda Iabuli had been responsible for the death of the tall beachcomber in 1942, the disturbed grave assumed a much more important aspect of his investigation.

‘Take a look at those,' he told Bulko, indicating the marks on the boulders.

‘What am I supposed to be looking for?' demanded Bulko, disdainfully, peering from a distance and fastidiously keeping to the path, away from the jagged stones.

‘Examine the rocks that were on top of Herman's grave.'

‘So, they're rocks,' said Bulko, reluctantly advancing a wincing pace or two in his highly polished shoes before stopping. ‘Seen one, you've seen them all.'

‘The marks on the rocks,' Kella persisted patiently.

With an effort Bulko folded slightly at his swollen midriff. He stared with distaste at the debris heaped before him. He resembled a bulky ebony carving teetering on an insecure base. When the mission school headmaster straightened up, he was no longer indifferent.

‘Someone's been hitting the rocks with a tool,' he acknowledged.

‘Be bold,' Kella urged. ‘Take it one logical step farther. Someone's been digging these particular rocks up with a pickaxe. That's the only explanation for these recent scratches and indentations. I noticed them the first time I saw them, but I didn't pay much attention, until I found out last night who killed Lofty Herman.'

‘How the hell did you do that?' asked Bulko, blinking. ‘Who was it?'

Kella hesitated. Both as the
aofia
and as a policeman he should not disclose Andu's deathbed confession. But at this moment he needed a sounding board for his theories. Solomon Bulko possessed the twin attributes of being both highly intelligent and completely apathetic about island life. He would pass Kella's ideas on to no one, mainly because he did not have the slightest interest in them, unless they affected his comfort or well-being.

‘I heard about it yesterday,' Kella said, not going into details. ‘Lofty Herman was probably killed and buried by two men from the nearest saltwater village. Their names were Andu and Senda Iabuli. Now they're both dead.'

Bulko shook his head. ‘Surely the grave was unearthed as a result of the earthquake?' he asked. ‘At least that's what I was told.'

‘No way,' said Kella decisively. ‘That's what we were meant to think. Those rocks were deliberately dug up by hand by someone, no doubt about it. Lofty Herman's grave was disinterred on purpose.'

‘Why on earth would anyone want to do that?' asked Bulko. ‘Graves are supposed to be sacred in these parts.'

‘You'd have to be pretty desperate,' admitted Kella. ‘Either that, or resigned to your fate.'

‘What's the weather like on your planet?' sighed the headmaster. ‘Do you mind telling me what you're talking about?'

‘I think', said Kella, ‘that Herman was killed by Andu and Iabuli on behalf of the local people.'

‘For what possible reason?' asked Bulko in exasperation.

‘Fear,' said Kella. He elaborated on the theme he had been considering all night. ‘In 1942, the British were abandoning the Solomons in droves, and the Japanese were coming in to take over. The locals were worried in case the Japanese thought they were harbouring a white man.'

‘So they murdered Herman, you mean?' asked Bulko, jolted out of his customary complacency. ‘That's creepy!'

‘If I've got it right, yes; Iabuli and Andu were deputed by the rest of their village to murder the unpopular Herman, in case his presence got them in bad with the Japanese when they arrived. Custom states that
ramos
who kill for the good of their clan must keep all knowledge of their activities to themselves, and take any consequences upon their own heads. It's a part of their
mana.
'

‘If you say so,' sighed Bulko. ‘On Choiseul we don't run around killing people — hardly ever, anyway. As a rule we've got enough intelligence to lie ourselves out of trouble.' A thought occurred to the headmaster. ‘Where would those two have got a rifle from to shoot Herman with?'

‘They probably used Herman's own weapon. No white man travelled on Malaita without a rifle in those days. He was almost certainly sifting for gold in the river, and left his rifle on the bank.'

‘So these two old men dug up Herman's grave a week or two ago?'

‘Not both of them, no,' said Kella. ‘I don't think Andu was involved in that. He was a ghost-caller. He wouldn't risk upsetting the spirits by meddling with the dead. With Iabuli it would be different.'

‘How come?'

‘Iabuli knew that he only had a short time to live. Because of his astounding escape from his fall from the ridge, the other villagers believed that he was in league with the devil. He had already received a curse from the village headman, placed among his comfort stones. Iabuli knew that before long his own people would murder him to drive away the devil from the area.'

‘You Malaita men sure are primitive bastards,' complained Bulko, with a genuine shiver.

‘You mean we have a proper and fitting respect for our ancestors,' corrected Kella. ‘The only reason Iabuli would risk offending the ghosts would be because he wanted to do something for his grandson Peter Oro before he died.'

Bulko groaned. ‘I might have known that one of my students would be involved,' he said self-pityingly. ‘I think they do it just to annoy me. But how do you know all this?'

‘By putting different pieces of information together,' said the police sergeant. ‘Last week Michael Rapasia, one of your teachers, saw Senda Iabuli talking to Peter Oro at the school. And then there were the tools.'

‘What tools?' asked Solomon Bulko.

‘Don't you remember? You told me that the shed containing the school's garden tools had been broken into, and the implements scattered all over the area. You thought at the time that it had been done by students who wanted to get out of gardening chores.'

‘I remember,' said Bulko.

‘Well, that was what you were supposed to think. I believe that Senda Iabuli had persuaded his grandson Peter Oro to steal a pickaxe and a spade. To conceal their loss he spread all the tools over the bush. Was Oro one of the pupils who later recovered some of the tools?'

‘As a matter of fact, I think he was,' said Bulko miserably.

‘Including a pickaxe?'

‘I can't remember,' said the headmaster dismally. ‘Probably.' He looked imploringly at Kella. ‘So Iabuli persuaded Peter Oro to steal a pickaxe and dig up Herman's grave with him. Why on earth would he do that?'

‘Maybe there was something buried along with Lofty Herman's body all those years ago,' Kella suggested, ‘something that might have been worth retrieving, to leave Peter Oro as a legacy. I've just heard that Oro was seen hanging around a treehouse in the bush containing trading goods.'

‘Why would he do that?'

‘Do you expect me to know everything?' asked Kella.

28

MARCHING RULE

The Friday night swill was in full flow at the Auki Club. John Deacon and Hans Gunter, a German logger, were playing the label game, watched by Lorrimer and the forty or so other expatriate men and women present.

Twenty bottles of beer were cooling in a large metal cask of water in the centre of the room. It was Deacon's turn. Deliberately the Australian selected a bottle from the tub. He whirled it in his hands and then peeled the soaked label from the bottle. Then he replaced the label, with the logo facing inwards.

Taking careful aim, Deacon spun the bottle up into the air. It struck the ceiling with force. The label came off and stuck to the ceiling, the logo and description now facing outwards, joining the other labels already there. As the bottle fell back, Deacon caught it, removed the top with his callused thumb and swallowed half the contents with one gulp.

‘Your turn, Hans,' he invited his opponent.

The blond, good-looking German staggered forward unsteadily. He had been drinking ever sincehe had arrivedat the club. He groped for one of the bottles. With trembling hands he reversed the label and threw the bottle up into the air. He misjudged the distance and the bottle fell back to the floor and shattered, its contents oozing into the large lake of beer already there.

‘One more for me,' claimed Deacon. The Australian drained the bottle in his hand and made his way towards the waiting cask. Changing his mind, he veered away and weaved over to Hans Gunter, and stood swaying in front of the German, grinning inanely.

‘It was 1946, see,' he slurred. ‘This British ship is sailing along, when up pops an old German U-boat. The German skipper comes up on to his conning-tower and shouts, ‘‘How is the war going?'' The British captain shouts back, ‘‘It's over. Your lot surrendered last year.'' ‘‘Ach!'' snaps the German skipper, going below. ‘‘Damn the Kaiser!'''

Some of the onlookers laughed. Others looked uneasily at the German logger. Hans Gunter frowned.

‘I don't get it,' he said.

Deacon leaned forward and waggled two fingers under Gunter's nose. ‘Two, Hans,' he said pityingly. ‘Your lot lost two wars, you cunt.'

‘Nutter,' snarled the German, stalking towards the bar. ‘That's all you are, Deacon, a bloody nutter.'

‘It takes one to know one,' said the Australian. He gazed up at the ceiling and counted the labels. ‘Twenty-two,' he boasted loudly. ‘The winner by default! Not bad. Before the war, I saw that Tazzy who became a film star, what's-his-name, Errol Flynn, I saw him get thirty-six labels to stick to the ceiling in a Port Moresby bar, when he was managing a plantation in New Guinea. Now there was a real piss-artist!'

Lorrimer sat at a table in the corner and surveyed the others. Most of the expatriate inhabitants of the district station were present, government officers, doctors and nurses from the hospital, store-owners, technicians from the boat-building yard, and several Voluntary Service Overseas youngsters. There were also a number of planters and traders like Deacon and Gunter, who worked farther along the coast and had made the journey in by boat for a weekend's drinking. The Auki Club was notorious for its wild parties and this one looked to be getting under way nicely.

Lorrimer stood up and edged through the crowd to the bar where he ordered a bottled beer from the Melanesian steward. Without apology Deacon pushed his way through the throng and stood by the inspector's side. Although he had been drinking heavily for several hours the Australian seemed lucid enough. He extended a hand.

‘John Deacon,' he said expansively. ‘You'll be Inspector Lorrimer. You flew over from Honiara this morning.' Lorrimer's beer arrived. Deacon gestured for it to be put on his tab. ‘I hear you're waiting for a boatload of police to arrive and then you're going to look for the missing Yank in the high bush.'

‘Something like that,' said Lorrimer non-committally, sipping his beer from the bottle. He had grown accustomed to the fact that there were few secrets in the Solomons.

‘Well, you take care of yourself, mate,' said Deacon. ‘Old Pazabosi might be a bit past it, but he's still capable of pulling a few strokes in the Kwaio country. The Brits wanted to pull him in after Marching Rule collapsed ten years ago, but they didn't dare go up after him. And that was when they still had an empire and delusions of grandeur. You mark my words, if you go up into the interior with just a dozen Roviana coppers, you'll be asking for trouble.'

‘I'll just have to take my chances then, won't I?' said Lorrimer.

‘You'd be bit more worried than that if you'd seen what happened when the Marching Rule rebellion started. I know. I was here, mate. As soon as the locals saw the black Yanks, who'd been so good to them, sailing away, they took it as a sign to start trying to chuck the Brits out. They reckoned that the Yanks had gone to paradise, and would come back to fight along with them once the uprising started.'

‘What do you suggest I do?' asked Lorrimer.

‘Leave it to Kella,' said the plantation manager emphatically. ‘This is his island. He'll sort things.'

Someone had put an LP on the Dansette record player. Men and women were beginning to dance to the sound of Dick Haymes singing ‘Little White Lies'. The music seemed to rejuvenate Deacon. Impulsively he burst away from the bar, gathered one of the Forestry Department's typists in his arms and swept her away across the floor, his arms pumping vigorously.

‘Mastah,' said the club steward warningly to Lorrimer, jerking his head towards the door. A uniformed police constable was standing in the entrance, beckoning urgently to the inspector. When Lorrimer walked over to him, the constable turned and led him outside.

‘What is it?' asked Lorrimer.

‘Come long hospital quick time,' urged the policeman. ‘Plenty big trouble!'

The police constable hurried Lorrimer along Loboi Avenue, the main street of the district station, to the concrete hospital. They went inside. In the reception area two scruffy islanders in dirty shorts and singlets were sitting sullenly on a bench, supervised by several constables.

‘What's going on?' asked Lorrimer.

The constable who had brought him from the club pointed to one of the doors leading from the hall. A cardboard sign attached to the wall read
Operating Theatre.

The two men sitting on the bench refused to meet Lorrimer's gaze. The door of the theatre opened and a balding, middle-aged white doctor came out. He nodded when he saw the police inspector.

‘You must be Lorrimer,' he said. ‘I heard there was a top cop on the station. We haven't had a policeman with any authority on Malaita since you took Ben Kella away from us. My name's Morgan, by the way.'

‘Dr Morgan,' nodded Lorrimer. ‘What's the problem?'

The doctor turned to the islanders on the bench and questioned them in a pidgin that was too fluent for Lorrimer's grasp of the lingua franca. One of the islanders replied in guttural monosyllables. He and his companion still seemed to be in deep shock.

‘They're still telling the same story, so it's probably true,' Morgan told Lorrimer. ‘They say they went into the Kwaio bush country to recover a box of artifacts they'd left up there.'

‘What sort of artifacts?' asked Lorrimer.

The doctor questioned the two men again. The spokesman responded briefly.

‘Custom carvings,' translated Dr Morgan. ‘Very old, by the sound of it. Their boss used to go round the villages buying them up in return for tobacco. Sometimes there would be too many carvings to get into their canoe to bring back down to Ruvabi. When that happened they would store the surplus carvings in a treehouse they had hired from a local man, and go back for them later. This time they had a large cache hidden away, and had returned for the box.'

‘Presumably to export from the Protectorate,' said Lorrimer. ‘Very lucrative, and highly illegal. Sorry, doctor. Go on.'

‘They were attacked by a gang of bushmen. Their boss was hacked down. These two guys ran away into the bush and hid. When they came back later, their boss was still alive, but only just. They carried him to their canoe, which is equipped with an outboard engine, and brought him downriver and then along the coast here to the hospital.'

‘A nasty business,' said Lorrimer.

‘It'll be more than that when the expats here get to hear of it,' predicted Dr Morgan grimly. ‘That's how the Marching Rule uprising started on Malaita after the war. Groups of islanders started attacking traders and government district officers in the bush. It looks as if Pazabosi's back on the warpath. When the news of this latest attack gets around, there'll be a bloody panic among the whites in the Protectorate.'

‘What's the name of the man who was attacked?' asked Lorrimer.

‘Gau,' said Morgan. ‘He's a half-caste who owns the store at Ruvabi. His name is Mendana Gau.'