In a shed next to the inn Tama saw an open door, and through it a kerosene lantern casting a dim yellow glow and deep black shadows. The naked back of a slim male was bent over a dark green machine. “Who—” Tama began.
“It was Valérie Valescu who did it,” said Martine LaRochelle with sudden animation, pulling herself away from Tama’s arm and looking up at him with wide, childlike eyes, “Valérie Valescu! We were asleep, Michel and I, and we heard the geese honking and honking and when they didn’t stop we got up and turned on the generator and then turned on all the lights and came out and there she was, trying to open the door to the goose pen with something in her hands and when Michel ran up to stop her she swung around and hit him in the head and then she hit me and I fell down and I saw her hit my husband some more and then she hit me again and when I woke up Michel wouldn’t move and I came and got you and now you tell me he’s dead.” Her mouth fell open, and from beneath the towel wrapped around her head a rivulet of blood began to flow down her cheek with renewed vigor.
“He’s dead? Le patron?” The young Tahitian waiter LaRochelle had called Cherry Cheeks stood in the doorway of the shed, a long wrench in his hand and smears of grease across his face. He wore nothing but a blue and white pareo wrapped around his slim hips. His eyes moved in wonderment from Martine LaRochelle to the Commissaire de Police to Colonel Yashimoto, as if one of them would tell him he was mistaken.
“Yes,” said Tama, wrapping his arm protectively around Mar-tine LaRochelle, “I’m afraid so. That’s the generator you’re working on?”
“It’s stopped working. I think it’s probably the flywheel, we had some trouble with it last week.”
“Get it going as soon as you can — we’re going to need electricity here.” Tama nodded towards the inn. “Is there someone there to get us breakfast while we wait for the gendarmes?”
“No, Monsieur, all the other personnel went home for the night. I’m the only one here.”
“Then keep working on the generator. We’ll take care of our own breakfast.”
But when they reached the front desk of the inn and Tama lifted the phone to call the Gendarmerie Nationale there was utter silence. “Mince!” he rumbled. “The damned phone line must have been knocked down by the storm.” He turned to Colonel Yashimoto. “You see to Madame LaRochelle’s head while I get coffee going. Then as soon as we get some clothes on, we’ll drive out to the nearest phone.”
Twenty minutes later Tama used the six-inch length of steel tubing bolted to the fender of his four-wheel drive Ford Explorer to pull himself into the front seat. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said to Colonel Yashimoto, “it may be minutes or it may be hours. Madame LaRochelle speaks some English. If an emergency comes up, there’s always her car to get you out of here.”
The state policeman nodded. “I think I can handle a middle-aged French sex-kitten — even with a crowbar in her hands.”
But two kilometers later Alexandre Tama found the former sex-goddess at the second wooden bridge he came to along the mud-churned road. A raging torrent of white and brown water surged through the crossing where late yesterday afternoon a bridge had stood. Just this side of the flood waters was a light blue rental car. Lips pursed, the Commissaire de Police peered through its side window. Inside, mouth half open, huddled up against herself in the rear seat, was Valérie Valescu, sound asleep.
“That was quick,” said Colonel Yashimoto admiringly as Tama dropped down from the driver’s seat. The Hawaiian’s eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline as he watched a badly disheveled Valérie Valescu climb down from the other side of the car. Her clothes and hair were caked with dried mud. “And you’ve already caught the perp — I can see why you don’t bother with fingerprints in Tahiti!”
Tama grimaced as he took V. V.’s elbow and guided her towards the front door of the inn. Her head was bowed and her eyes downcast. “I’m afraid it isn’t going to be as simple as that. Where’s Madame LaRochelle?”
“Asleep, I think. We cleaned her up and found her some sleeping pills and got her to bed.”
“And the boy? Has he got the generator going yet?”
“No. Now he thinks it’s probably the fuel pump. His name’s Dominique, by the way, and he seems like a nice little fellow even if LaRochelle didn’t like him.”
Tama grunted. “All right, let’s see if we can find something to eat — it may be a long time before we get out of here. In the meantime I’ll tell you what’s happening.”
Valérie Valescu sat sullenly between Tama and Colonel Yashimoto at a small table in the unlighted kitchen and poked listlessly at the golden brown omelet Tama had cooked for her with a few deft turns of a blackened skillet. The Commissaire swirled a piece of bread into the last creamy remains of his own six-egg omelet and pushed it into his mouth. “The damned butter’s hard as a rock,” he grumbled. “Nothing ever works right in Tahiti for very long.”
Colonel Yashimoto took a cautious sip of his inky-black coffee and turned his eyes towards the silent actress. “And she says she didn’t do it?”
“Yes. She admits that she came back in the night to let the geese out of their pens — that’s the wrong word, she boasts that she came to let them out. For some reason, someone at the rental car place left a wrecker’s bar in the backseat and that’s what gave her the idea. By the time she got back the rain had stopped and all the lights were off. She started prying at the gate that led to the barn and the geese started honking. She got the gate opened and the geese running around like crazy, and then, she says, in the total darkness, she felt a hand fasten around her neck.”
“Scary,” muttered Colonel Yashimoto. “And then what happened?”
“She dropped the crowbar and tried to scream. By this time she knew it was LaRochelle, because he was yelling and cursing as he tried to strangle her. But then they slipped and fell down in the mud and she managed to pull herself loose and get away to the car. She says she expected LaRochelle to come running after her but for some reason he didn’t. She was too grateful to wonder why but just jumped in the car and drove away. By the time she got back to the bridge it had been washed away. So she climbed into the backseat and went to sleep.” Tama sighed heavily. “The sign, I suppose, of a clear conscience and a good digestion.”
The Hawaiian turned a dubious eye to the former movie star. “There’s something here that doesn’t make sense. She says she came back and did all this fighting and running in the dark? Where were the lights?”
“That is indeed the curious part. Let me go over this one more time with Mademoiselle Valescu to make sure I’ve understood her correctly, and then I’ll fill you in.”
For the next five minutes Tama prodded the actress with a series of softly spoken questions. As she replied, reluctantly at first, then with growing animation, her head snapped up and her voice became increasingly emphatic. Finally she rattled off a long string of machine-gun-like French, staring Tama squarely in the eye and pounding the table for emphasis.
Lips pursed, Tama nodded. “What it boils down to,” he said in English to Colonel Yashimoto, “is that Madame LaRochelle couldn’t possibly have seen Mademoiselle Valescu doing what she was supposed to have done because there simply weren’t any lights.”
“An’ I proof it!” interjected Valérie Valescu in heavily accented English.
“Well, maybe,” conceded Tama. “What she says is that when she came back in the night with just her parking lights on, she parked the car some distance away and made a careful reconnaissance around the entire inn. She was almost scared out of her wits when she came around the side of the inn and saw a light suddenly come on.”