The craftsman’s eyes widened in alarm. “Is... is there something wrong with it?”
Tama snorted explosively while Inspector Opuu snickered sardonically. “Wrong with it? Aside from using it to drum up business by killing your clients, what would be wrong with it?”
“Killing... killing my clients?” The shiny black eyes grew wider yet. “I... I don’t understand.”
“Well? Isn’t that what happened? You delivered this million-franc casket to a customer who had been inconsiderate enough not to need your services, and when he saw your bill he was kind enough to drop dead at your feet after all.” Tama leaned forward as much as the bulk of his stomach would allow and glared balefully at the trembling Chinese. “And then what did you do?”
“But... but... that isn’t at all what happened! He... he called me and told me to deliver it. So I delivered it the next day and—”
“Wait!” interrupted Tama sharply. “He called you and told you to deliver it? Charles Nystrom himself?”
“Well... I think so. He said... No, wait! Maybe it was his wife... It was a woman, I think... Yes.” The Chinese bobbed his head up and down decisively. “It was his wife, the woman who ordered the casket. She telephoned and told me to deliver it to Pamatai the next afternoon.”
Tama nodded sceptically. “And then?”
The coffin maker shrugged in bewilderment. “I delivered it. Monsieur Nystrom came to the door, told me to put the casket in the garage and that he’d send me a check.”
“He told you to put it in the garage? He didn’t clutch his chest and fall down dead at your feet?”
“No, of course not! He was a little surprised to see the casket, but then he laughed and said he would fill it up with champagne bottles and float it in his pool at his next party.” The Chinese shook his head at the inscrutability of the mysterious West.
“Hrmph!” grumbled Tama as he climbed into the front seat of the black Citroen sedan. He turned the air conditioner to high and pulled an enormous red bandanna from his pants to dab at the sweat that was beading his forehead. “According to him, our dying Swede was in perfect health and practically dancing a jig around his own coffin when he left. What do you think, Opuu?”
The wiry inspector was busy at the wheel of the Citroen, guiding the car down the narrow road that wound through the Valley of Titioro, and it was a moment before he replied. “I think before we go any further we better see the people at the hospital. The next thing we know, this dead man will be playing center-forward for the Bordeaux Girondins.”
“For his sake let’s hope so.” The chief of police shook his head with an air of somber disappointment. “I told you this story was too good to be true!”
But Nystrom was dead. That was settled as soon as they reached the hospital. The smiling Tahitian woman in records had a large red and white hibiscus tucked into her glossy black chignon and was nearly as round as Alexandre Tama. She quickly found the file for Charles Nystrom and let the chief of police study it. “He’s dead all right,” muttered Tama, “cardiac arrest.” He glanced at the file again. “Let’s stroll over to the emergency ward.”
The emergency ward was on the far side of the modem four-story hospital, and there they found four orderlies and ambulance drivers playing cards while a nurse and the supervisor stood behind them and offered loud advice. A telephone jangled noisily but went unanswered until at last it stopped ringing. The players around the table glanced up at Tama and Opuu without interest and returned to their game.
“Hrmph!” trumpeted Tama and there was instant silence in the large airy room that nevertheless smelled overwhelmingly of ether. “Now then! Who’s in charge of this kindergarten?” He glared angrily at the tall, thin Chinese woman who appeared to be the supervisor and pulled his credentials from his pocket. His face was grim. Six inhabitants of his bailiwick who didn’t recognize their chief of police! Intolerable! “Or should I say: who was in charge of this playpen until such time as I speak to the head of the hospital!”
“Please, monsieur,” said the supervisor, “what can we do for you?”
“That’s better,” grumbled Tama, perching himself precariously on a small metal chair. “This Swede who died of a heart attack up in Pamatai a few days ago: tell me about it.”
But there was little to tell. The supervisor opened the daily logbook and turned the pages back. “There,” she said, pointing at a penciled entry. “At fifteen thirty-eight Monsieur Nystrom called to say he was having an attack and would we send an ambulance.”
“And who took the call?”
“I did, monsieur,” said a good-looking young man in a white smock. His curly hair was glossy black and his skin as golden brown as that of the Tahitian attendants, but his accent was clearly from the south of France, probably Nice. “I remember because I was the duty driver that afternoon, and as soon as I hung up, I got the ambulance and went to get him.”
“I see. And when you got there?”
“There was a car in the garage but no answer at the door. After a while I walked around the side of the house and came out by the pool. All the doors to the house were open, and when I looked in the living room there he was, lying on the couch.”
“He was dead?”
“I thought so at first, but he was still breathing very faintly. I got him on the gurney and into the ambulance, but by the time we got back to the hospital he was already dead.”
“You tried to reanimate him?” he asked the supervisor.
“Yes, sir. But it was hopeless.”
“Hrmph.” Alexandre Tama stroked his chin pensively. He turned back to the ambulance driver. “And did you see this famous coffin of his?”
The young Frenchman’s eyebrows lifted in bewilderment. “Coffin, monsieur? What coffin is that?”
The chief of police had already surged to his feet. “Never mind. Where’s the doctor who certified this death? There is a doctor somewhere in this madhouse, I presume?”
Dr. Baudchon was on detached duty from his required military service with the French army. He was tall and young, robustly handsome, and spoke rapidly through clenched teeth with the nearly impenetrable accent of Toulouse. The long corridor outside his office was filled with two dozen or more Tahitians with a variety of bandages and wailing children. Standing behind his desk, Dr. Baudchon ran his hands through his dark brown hair in a harassed manner and blinked at them through thick tortoiseshell glasses. “The Swede? The one who had the heart attack a couple of months ago? Of course I remember him. A miracle he lived. Nothing to do with us — just a miracle.”
“That I can certainly believe,” agreed Tama drily. “And when you saw him again a few days ago?”
Dr. Baudchon shrugged impatiently. “Dead. I remembered his medical history; I did an examination — all the visible symptoms of a heart attack. I signed the certificate and—”
“You didn’t do an autopsy?”
The young Frenchman stared at Tama in astonishment. “An autopsy — here in...?” He waved his hand expressively to indicate the chaos that awaited him beyond the closed door of his office. “Why on earth would we do an autopsy?”
“It was nip and tuck with the procureur,” reported Tama to Inspector Opuu as he returned from the Palace of Justice, “but he finally agreed. He’ll order an autopsy.”