A glance back showed the man coming after me. When he encountered thick shrubbery, a slash sent it tumbling. The man was no insubstantial wraith or illusion. While I moved faster than he in the open, he got through the heavy stuff at least as fast as I did.
I tried to circle around him to get to the house, but he kept angling off to keep himself between me and it. I worried about getting lost. That would be no matter in daylight, when one could always tell direction by sun and sea. Night was something else.
The man got closer, herding me away from the Argenton house. Thinking that such a tubby fellow would get winded sooner than I, I led him straight up the slope. He plodded after, now losing a meter, now gaining one.
The distance to the Fort-de-France road seemed much farther than I remembered it. But then, I had not made the climb before on foot, at night, through tropical vegetation. After me came the man with the machete.
When I came out on the road, I was bushed. My pounding heart and laboring lungs reminded me that I was, after all, pushing fifty. My pursuer, too, emerged on the road. He did not seem to pant or labor at all.
As the man came out into full moonlight, I saw that his face bore a blank, unwinking stare. Tales of zombis ran through my head. Without a word or a cry, he trotted towards me, swinging the machete.
I thought that, even with my longer legs, I could not escape him along the road, since he did not seem to tire like normal mortals. On the other side was a stand of banana trees, once cultivated but now growing wild. Their huge, ragged leaves afforded easy cover, in which I might be able to lose him.
I plunged into the bananas. At first I thought I was gaining. I tried to throw him off by changing direction, but my woodcraft was not up to moving silently. Every time I looked back, there he was, plodding along. If I could only find a club, now, I could parry that slash and then clout him over the head or ram it into his belly ...
There were no clubs. I passed a clump of bamboo. A length of bamboo would do fine, but I needed time and my own machete to cut a stalk and shape it. I blundered on.
Then I could go no further. I had no idea where I was, and the man was still coming. I thought of lunging at him, head down in a football tackle. If I could duck beneath the swing of the cutlass ...
Panting, I crouched and spread my arms. On he came, the machete before him. Up it went. Someone shouted: "Halte-la!"
When my pursuer kept on, a flash and explosion deafened and blinded me. The man was whirled around. He fell, and I saw that one of his legs had been hit. The trouser leg was torn and darkening, and the leg had a bend where none should be.
Still, the fellow recovered and began hopping grotesquely towards me, dragging the wounded leg. A second report brought him down again.- Still he crawled nearer, using his arms alone, with both shattered legs trailing. He still gripped his machete.
A third shot spattered brains. The man lay still.
A man in uniform stepped into the moonlight, replacing the spent cartridges in a revolver. Although the peak of the kepi shadowed his shiny black face, I knew Hippolyte Frot.
"Well, Monsieur!" he said. "If you had not fled so fast and drawn this species of camel after you, the affair would have been finished long ago. My faith, I have never seen a man with gray hair run through the woods like you! Are you a retired Olympic champion?"
When I could get my breath, I said: "It is like the tale of the rabbit who escaped the fox: the rabbit ran faster for his life than the fox for his dinner. Where did you come from so a propos?"
"I told you we were going to watch this section more closely."
Frot holstered his pistol. I recognized it as one of those .44 magnums, which have almost the punch of an elephant gun and a recoil to match. I used to be a pretty good pistol shot, but if I had to shoot one of those things, I'd grip it in both hands to keep it from getting away from me.
Sergeant Frot shone a flashlight on the body. He said: "O mon Dieu!"
"What is it?"
He turned a face on which, even in shadow, I could see bewilderment. In a man as well-integrated and self-possessed as Hippolyte Frot, that was alarming. He said:
"Do you know who this is?"
"No. Who is it?"
"This is Louis Mouttet, the rascally governor who perished in the great eruption—or else someone made up to resemble him. I have seen photographs of the original Mouttet, and there is no error. Formidable!"
"That was over sixty years ago!"
"Exactly. But, you know, the body of Mouttet was never found, although the government made strenuous efforts to identify the victims."
"You mean some gang of bourhousses has been keeping Mouttet as a zombi all this time? And Duchamps borrowed the body to send against me?"
"Monsieur," said Frot heavily, "you may indulge in such speculations if you like. We have the freedom of opinion. But we also have the mission civilizatrice of France. For that reason, I cannot permit this explanation to enter the official records. It is undoubtedly a man, the mind of whom has been turned by the preachings of Duchamps and his like and who was chosen to accentuate a natural resemblance to the real Mouttet. Back, if you please!"
Frot drew the big revolver and fired one more shot into the corpse's head, at such an angle that the bullet came out the face. That face was instantly reduced to a gory ruin, which nobody could have identified.
"Now," he said, "there will be no more cause to spread these rumors that lend themselves to primitive superstition. As you know, Monsieur Newbury, the civilization is but a thin crust over our savage interiors, no matter if our skins be white or black. We must try to keep this shell of egg intact."
I heard a thrashing in the banana grove and a halloo.
"Oui, nous y sommes," called Frot. "Tout va bien."
It was Denise and two policement from Frot's station, drawn by the shots. She had circled around to the house. After the zombi and I had plunged into the banana grove, she got into the car and drove like mad to Fort-de-France. There they told her that Frot was out patrolling our area himself; but, in view of the seriousness of the situation, two of the flics had returned with her.
Jacques Lecouvreur got his motor. Having had engineering training in my youth, I helped him install it. Stephen and I lent a hand to the villagers of Schoelcher at hauling in the net on one of their seining operations. We incidentally learned that barracuda are good eating, although some are prejudiced against them.
The next time I saw Frot, I asked about Oreste Duchamps.
"Deported to his native Haiti," said the sergeant. "We cannot permit such primitive buffooneries to trouble the course of our civilization. And what of you, Monsieur?"
"All is tranquil, thank you, save that our cook has disappeared. I think she was in league with Duchamps. She was a terrible cook, anyhow; and we leave a few days hence."
"In that case, Monsieur, I think you need fear no further disturbances. Perhaps you would care to extend your sojourn? Really, you should give Martinique a chance to show how charming she can be, when she is not vexed by barbarous intriguers."
"I am tempted, but my job calls me back."
"Till next time, then."
"A coup sur, Monsieur Frot. But you may be certain that, if ever again I rent a house in a foreign land, I will make sure that I am the only one with a lease!"
A Sending Of Serpents
I was not thinking of snakes. I was thinking of the loan that we—that is, the Harrison Trust—had made to the shaky Gliozzi Construction Company, when Malcolm McGill, our treasurer, came in.