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Authors: Carnal Hours (v5.0)
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book on it—both had reddish smears.
I leaned toward the open window and gulped fresh air; muggy though it was, it helped.
“Are you all right, Mr. Heller?”
Lindop looked genuinely concerned.
I stood. Thank God I hadn’t eaten any breakfast.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I know what that smell is. I recognize it from overseas.”
Charred grinning Jap corpses by a wrecked tank on the Matanikau, a foul sweet wind blowing through the kunai grass. …
“Where did you serve?”
I told him.
“I see,” he said.
“Colonel, I’m an ex-Chicago cop—I’m not squeamish about much of anything. But…being back in the tropics is proving a real stroll down memory lane.”
He nodded toward the doorway. “We can leave.”
“No.” I swallowed thickly. “Show me what’s beyond the Chinese screen….”
Colonel Lindop nodded curtly and stepped around it, following the scorched path, leading me to my final audience with Sir Harry Oakes, who was not at all his usual lively self this morning.
He was on the twin bed nearer the dressing screen, which apparently had been positioned to protect the sleeper from the open window’s Bahamas breeze, though it had not protected him otherwise.
His squat, heavyset body lay face up, one arm dangling over the bedside, his skin blackened from flame, interrupted by occasional raw red wounds, head and neck caked with dried blood. He was naked, but shreds of blue-striped pajamas indicated his nightwear had been burned off him. His eyes and groin seemed to have taken extra heat; those areas were blistered and charred.
Over the bed was an umbrellalike wooden framework that had held mosquito netting, most of which was burned away. Strangely, this side of the nearby dressing screen was unblemished by smoke or fire. The most bizarre touch in this ghastly tableau was the feathers from a pillow which had been scattered over the blackened corpse, where they clung to the burned blistery flesh.
“Jesus,” I said. It was almost a prayer.
“His friend Harold Christie found him, this morning,” Lindop said. “About seven.”
“Poor old bastard.” I shook my head and said it again. I tried to breathe only through my mouth, so the smell wouldn’t get to me.
Then I said, “Cantankerous old rich guy like him couldn’t have been short on enemies.”
“Apparently not.”
It was one messy murder scene. Red palm prints, like a child’s finger-painting, stood out on the wall by the window across from the other, unslept-in twin bed; somebody with wet hands had looked out. I didn’t imagine they’d been wet with catsup. More red prints were visible on the wall kitty-corner from the bed.
All of these prints looked damp—the humidity had kept them from drying.
Blood glistened on both knobs of the open, connecting door between this and another, smaller bedroom, opposite the unoccupied bed. I peeked in—that bedroom, which looked unused, was about sixteen feet across. Sir Harry’s was twice that, and the other way ran the full width of the house, looking out on porches on both the south and north sides.
“Well,” I said, “there’s not exactly a shortage of clues. The trail of fire…bloody fingerprints…”
He pointed. “That fan by the foot of his bed seems to be what blew the feathers all over him.”
“What do you make of the feathers, Colonel? Some sort of voodoo ritual?”
“Obeah,” the Colonel said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s what the practice of native magic is called here: obeah.”
“And the feathers could mean that—or anyway, somebody wanted it to seem to mean that…”
“Indeed.” Lindop’s features tightened in thought; hands locked behind him. “After all, Sir Harry was quite popular with the native population, here.”
There was a spray gun on the floor near the door to the adjacent bedroom. “Bug spray?”
Lindop nodded. “Insecticide. Highly flammable….”
“Was he doused with that?” I laughed glumly. “Quick, Sir Harry,
I leaned toward the open window and gulped fresh air; muggy though it was, it helped.
“Are you all right, Mr. Heller?”
Lindop looked genuinely concerned.
I stood. Thank God I hadn’t eaten any breakfast.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I know what that smell is. I recognize it from overseas.”
Charred grinning Jap corpses by a wrecked tank on the Matanikau, a foul sweet wind blowing through the kunai grass. …
“Where did you serve?”
I told him.
“I see,” he said.
“Colonel, I’m an ex-Chicago cop—I’m not squeamish about much of anything. But…being back in the tropics is proving a real stroll down memory lane.”
He nodded toward the doorway. “We can leave.”
“No.” I swallowed thickly. “Show me what’s beyond the Chinese screen….”
Colonel Lindop nodded curtly and stepped around it, following the scorched path, leading me to my final audience with Sir Harry Oakes, who was not at all his usual lively self this morning.
He was on the twin bed nearer the dressing screen, which apparently had been positioned to protect the sleeper from the open window’s Bahamas breeze, though it had not protected him otherwise.
His squat, heavyset body lay face up, one arm dangling over the bedside, his skin blackened from flame, interrupted by occasional raw red wounds, head and neck caked with dried blood. He was naked, but shreds of blue-striped pajamas indicated his nightwear had been burned off him. His eyes and groin seemed to have taken extra heat; those areas were blistered and charred.
Over the bed was an umbrellalike wooden framework that had held mosquito netting, most of which was burned away. Strangely, this side of the nearby dressing screen was unblemished by smoke or fire. The most bizarre touch in this ghastly tableau was the feathers from a pillow which had been scattered over the blackened corpse, where they clung to the burned blistery flesh.
“Jesus,” I said. It was almost a prayer.
“His friend Harold Christie found him, this morning,” Lindop said. “About seven.”
“Poor old bastard.” I shook my head and said it again. I tried to breathe only through my mouth, so the smell wouldn’t get to me.
Then I said, “Cantankerous old rich guy like him couldn’t have been short on enemies.”
“Apparently not.”
It was one messy murder scene. Red palm prints, like a child’s finger-painting, stood out on the wall by the window across from the other, unslept-in twin bed; somebody with wet hands had looked out. I didn’t imagine they’d been wet with catsup. More red prints were visible on the wall kitty-corner from the bed.
All of these prints looked damp—the humidity had kept them from drying.
Blood glistened on both knobs of the open, connecting door between this and another, smaller bedroom, opposite the unoccupied bed. I peeked in—that bedroom, which looked unused, was about sixteen feet across. Sir Harry’s was twice that, and the other way ran the full width of the house, looking out on porches on both the south and north sides.
“Well,” I said, “there’s not exactly a shortage of clues. The trail of fire…bloody fingerprints…”
He pointed. “That fan by the foot of his bed seems to be what blew the feathers all over him.”
“What do you make of the feathers, Colonel? Some sort of voodoo ritual?”
“Obeah,” the Colonel said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s what the practice of native magic is called here: obeah.”
“And the feathers could mean that—or anyway, somebody wanted it to seem to mean that…”
“Indeed.” Lindop’s features tightened in thought; hands locked behind him. “After all, Sir Harry was quite popular with the native population, here.”
There was a spray gun on the floor near the door to the adjacent bedroom. “Bug spray?”
Lindop nodded. “Insecticide. Highly flammable….”
“Was he doused with that?” I laughed glumly. “Quick, Sir Harry,
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