Devil-Devil (28 page)

‘Why didn’t you explain that to your people? They would have understood.’

‘The
trochea
had nothing to do with them. It was a matter between me and the ghosts.’

‘Of course,’ said Kella, understanding. ‘But all the same, people were wondering why you had not raised a war party to hunt down Gau and his fellow thieves. I thought about it myself. But when I came up here on several occasions there were no signs of preparations for violence. That got me thinking.’

‘You always were curious,’ observed Pazabosi. ‘It almost got you killed several times during the war.’

‘Actually, it was a white man who put me on the track,’ Kella said. ‘A fellow police officer called Lorrimer reminded me that the last uprising on the island, Marching Rule, did not start until there had been the custom sign of black American soldiers sailing away. Once I began thinking about that, things started falling into place.’

‘There are some who believe that you think too much, Sergeant Kella.’

‘After the
havu
had gone, a story started spreading that the mighty Pazabosi was waiting only for a custom sign from the spirits to go after the men who had stolen the
havu
and then lead a great uprising against the Brits on Malaita.’

‘You should have been a bushman,’ said Pazabosi. ‘You have the right sort of cunning mind. I would not have minded handing the leadership over to you.’

‘No, thanks, I’ve already got enough problems,’ said Kella. ‘But that’s where the old saltwater man Senda Iabuli and his grandson Peter Oro came into the matter. Iabuli knew that his days on earth were numbered. He was under sentence of death in his village because the people there believed that he was in league with the devil. He had no money, but he wanted to leave his grandson something when his death came.’

‘Iabuli was a greedy fool,’ said Pazabosi flatly.

‘Years before, in 1942, with the imminent arrival of the Japanese, Iabuli and his friend Andu, the ghost-caller, had been deputed by the villagers to murder Lofty Herman, the
beachcomber
, in case the Japanese troops punished the whole area for harbouring a white man. Iabuli thought you were waiting for a custom sign to start your uprising. He decided to provide you with one. Am I right so far?’

‘He dug up Herman’s grave after the earthquake,’ agreed the old bushman. ‘Peter Oro stole some tools from the school and helped his grandfather bring up the white man’s skeleton one night.’

‘Then Iabuli made sure that everyone thought the body had been brought to the surface by the earthquake,’ said Kella. ‘That would be regarded as a custom sign, if ever there was one.’

‘Senda Iabuli came to me one night and told me what he had done,’ said Pazabosi. ‘He thought I would be pleased. He told me that he was expecting to be poisoned by his own. He asked me to give him some gold sovereigns for him to hand over to Peter Oro as his last bequest.’

‘But really that was the last thing you wanted.’

‘I had to put Iabuli off while I decided what to do. I told him that it would take me some time to gather the gold coins together,’ nodded Pazabosi.

‘But why did you kill Senda Iabuli and Peter Oro?’

‘I didn’t,’ said the old man simply. ‘I had entered my period of contemplation, if you remember. I could harm no one. I sent the bones
tabu
sign to Senda Iabuli, to warn him to keep quiet while I thought the matter through. It was not necessary. By that time his own people had murdered him.’

‘And Hita then killed Peter Oro?’

‘Hita was perfectly prepared to use the custom sign of Lofty Herman’s body as a signal to lead an uprising and make a name for himself,’ said Pazabosi. ‘I had to tell him that the sign was a false one.’

‘So Hita heard that Peter Oro was hiding in the bush, after you frightened the boy when you pointed the bones
tabu
at me,’ mused Kella. ‘Hita and his warriors set out to find him. They murdered Peter Oro, because they knew that he was the only one left who realized that the uprising sign of Herman’s skeleton was false. It wasn’t a real custom sign. So Oro had to be disposed of.’

‘Hita left the body by the killing ground to warn you off,’ said Pazabosi. ‘Next he attacked Mendana Gau, to gain face among the bush people as a warrior. He is trying to show the Kwaio people that he is a true leader. As soon as I have gone, he will start the uprising against the whites on the island.’

‘He won’t wait for ever,’ warned Kella. ‘If you look like lasting much longer he’ll have to kill you before he can take over the leadership.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ asked Pazabosi.

‘That just leaves Professor Mallory.’

‘What about him?’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Kella impatiently. ‘You know where he is and Hita probably doesn’t – yet. This is all a part of your delaying plan, to enable you to see your
trochea
through in peace. You lured Mallory up here by pretending you were prepared to show him the
havu
. When he arrived, you and your men kidnapped him. You’ve got that American hidden away somewhere, so that you have some sort of insurance in case you have to start negotiating with the authorities one day. It won’t work. I have to take Mallory back now.’

‘If I have him,’ said Pazabosi steadily, ‘I will still need him.’

‘The authorities won’t bring any charges against you,’ argued Kella. ‘They’ll be so relieved to have Mallory back, if he hasn’t been harmed, that they’ll leave you alone. I’m going to arrest Hita for the murder of Peter Oro, so you won’t have to bother about his challenge to your leadership either. It’s all going to come out well for you, just like you’ve planned.’

Again Pazabosi shook his head. The police sergeant wondered why the old clan leader was being so unwilling to make any concessions when he was in such a strong position. Then he realized why.

‘I get it,’ he said. ‘Hita doesn’t know where Professor Mallory is either. But he’s looking for the American. If he can find him and butcher him, it will make Hita an even bigger hero in the eyes of his people.’

‘That is possible,’ nodded Pazabosi, and waited.

‘But you’re hoping that I’ll find Mallory as well,’ went on Kella, thinking aloud. ‘That could bring Hita and me into conflict. You don’t care which one of us wins. If Hita and I come up against each other, one of us is almost certainly going to die, and that’s fine with you.’

Pazabosi looked at Kella with the benign air of a schoolmaster whose pupil was doing unexpectedly well.

‘That’s how I see it, too,’ concurred the chief.

‘You’re absolutely sure?’ asked Sergeant Ha’a, looking dubiously at the line of carvings arrayed on his desk. ‘These are genuine custom carvings, not replicas produced by the schoolboys at Ruvabi?’

‘There’s no doubt about it,’ Sister Conchita assured him. ‘I recognized them as soon as the crate was opened on the wharf. Most of the carvings were made by the boys, but these six are definitely the genuine article. They’re all listed in Melanesian ethnographies. Look at this shark hook! It’s at least a century old and made of turtle shell, which has to be heated before it can be shaped. No schoolboy could produce work of this quality.’

She regarded the short, plump policeman with triumph. Several days had passed since she had discovered the artifacts in the case at the Customs shed. She had encountered Sergeant Ha’a in the entrance hall of police headquarters after her rapid departure from the shed. When she had gabbled a breathless explanation of what had happened on the wharf he had gone back with her to the harbour immediately and commandeered the box, returning with it to the headquarters building, She had heard nothing else until this morning, when she had received a message from Sergeant Ha’a, summoning her to police headquarters.

‘Hmm,’ said Sergeant Ha’a.

‘Have you arrested the Customs inspector?’ Sister Conchita asked eagerly.

‘Whatever for?’ asked Ha’a, sounding shocked by her enthusiasm.

‘Well, for being involved in abstracting the genuine artifacts from the box, of course.’

Ha’a raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Have you any proof of this?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked the nun, beginning to get annoyed at the islander’s apparent indifference. ‘Someone is putting valuable old carvings into the crates at Ruvabi, among the boys’ efforts, and then removing them when they reach Customs at Honiara, and smuggling them out of the Solomons.’

She remembered the words of Jimmy, the malaria sprayer on Sulufou. He had warned her about getting involved with smuggling. She had thought that he was referring to Deacon’s shell racket, but obviously he had heard rumours of what was happening at Ruvabi mission.

‘Again, I ask you, do you have any evidence?’ asked the sergeant placidly.

‘Well, not as such, but it was obvious from the way that the Customs inspector behaved that something was wrong. He was far too keen to accept the crate without checking the contents, and then when I asked for it to be opened he looked terrified.’

‘Perhaps you had frightened him. Could that be possible?’ suggested Ha’a gently. Sister Conchita opened her mouth to reply, but the sergeant was talking again. ‘Sister, this is a British Protectorate, policed by British-trained officers. The British rule of law applies here. We do not arrest people because they look worried when hectored by an expatriate member of a religious order with a strong personality and a pronounced sense of justice. However, you may take it from me that the matter is under investigation.’

‘Look, I know you don’t know me, Sergeant Ha’a—’ began the nun.

‘You underestimate yourself, sister,’ interrupted the
policeman
. ‘Your fame precedes you from Ruvabi.’

‘It does?’ asked Sister Conchita, for once at a loss for words.

‘Indeed. You are known for getting out to the Lau Catholic villages and leading the prayer sessions there. You conduct their worship with such verve and gusto that the islanders have even given you a name – mary talk-talk long God.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Sister Conchita.

‘Roughly – the Praying Woman.’ Sergeant Ha’a rose and glanced at his watch. ‘And now I believe that it is time for you to leave. Aren’t you meeting Father Pierre’s aircraft at
Henderson
Field at nine o’clock this morning?’

‘How on earth did you know that?’ asked Sister Conchita, finding herself on her feet despite her firm intention to stay.

Ha’a escorted her urbanely to his office door. ‘I would like to claim that it was due to unremitting toil and and instinctive detective work,’ he admitted innocently. ‘In fact, I have a
wantok
who works as a cleaner at the mission headquarters and keeps her ears and eyes open! Good morning, Sister Conchita.’

Sister Conchita was still fuming at the sergeant’s smooth dismissal of her protests as she drove the mission jeep over the Matanikau Bridge out of Honiara along the eight-mile stretch of road flanking the sea to Henderson Field, the airport serving the capital. If only Sergeant Kella was still on Guadalcanal, she thought bitterly, he would have paid proper attention to her theories. Then, with a pang of remorse, she remembered how earlier she had impulsively accused the Malaitan of deliberately implicating Father Pierre in his inquiries.

Sister Conchita usually managed to see the bright side of most situations, but this morning she was undeniably depressed. Father Ignatius had been decidedly cool in his attitude towards her lately. The fact that she had unwittingly implicated Ruvabi mission station in the alleged smuggling of carvings out of the Protectorate had done nothing to increase her popularity with the precise administrator. As a result Sister Conchita had been banished lately to the headquarters motor pool, with long hot days of grappling with wrenches and ill-fitting and antiquated engine spare parts.

She drove over the speed limit past the Kukum golf course and King George VI Secondary School. Soon there were no more buildings, only the foothills to her right and green plains skirting the sea on her left. Father Ignatius had allowed her to meet Father Pierre’s flight only because no one else had wanted to waste a morning waiting for the erratic Baron Beechcraft service to arrive from Auki.

‘Father Pierre is an old man who has spent rather too long in the bush,’ the administrator had told her with hauteur. ‘In fact it is feared in some quarters that over the years he has allowed his message to become diluted with pagan practices. In short, sister, we fear that he has suffered the fate of more than one long-serving missionary, and gone native!’

Sister Conchita had suppressed the angry retort trembling on her lips. If she antagonized this complacent and ignorant headquarters pussy-cat further the man might rescind his decision to send her to meet the priest, and she needed to see Father Pierre again more than anything.

It would also be nice to see Sergeant Kella once more, she admitted wistfully to herself. Not only did she want to apologize for maligning him, but she realized how much she had taken comfort in the big man’s taciturn but solid presence. If anyone was going to solve the mysteries surrounding Ruvabi mission, she was sure that it was going to be the
aofia
.

She parked outside the unfurnished single-storeyed brick building, which doubled as reception lounge and Customs and Immigration area for the bi-weekly international flights from Papua New Guinea and Fiji. Inside, a large ceiling fan lethargically pushed aside layers of hot air.

Sister Conchita passed through the building and emerged on the far side, stopping behind a small fence running parallel to the airstrip. Only a handful of expatriates and islanders waited in the morning heat to meet the scheduled inter-islands flight from Malaita. For once the Baron Beechcraft was on time. Sister Conchita could see it flying across the bay, banking over the heavily forested island of Nggela. Within minutes the trim aircraft was shuddering to a halt outside the airport building. Half a dozen passengers emerged from the plane, among them the unmistakable form of Father Pierre, bowed, shuffling, clad in a long black habit and carrying his belongings in a Gladstone bag.