The Man Who Died Twice Read online

  “Well—let’s get wet.”

  He loped towards the water, hearing her small cry behind him but keeping on, aware of her running steps but thinking that she wanted to race until, with another cry, she grabbed one of his hands and dug her heels into the sand.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not there.” She held his hand in both of hers and pulled him a few feet up the beach. I’ll show you why.”

  She found what she wanted presently and knelt beside it. Then he saw she was gingerly turning over a sand-covered object that had been washed in by the tide. About four inches in diameter, it was completely covered with inch-long spikes, some white and some dark so that it had a curiously mottled color.

  “Sea eggs,” she said. “The spines break off in your feet and hurt like everything. Some say they have a little poison, but I think it’s just the spines.”

  She rose and pointed to the coral rocks that lay partly submerged in front of them. “They’re around the rocks so you have to be careful. But up this way”—she indicated the beach which stretched the other way—“it’s all right. From about that breadfruit tree—”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one with the big shiny leaves. From there to that one with the coconuts—” She pointed a hundred feet up the beach, grinned up at him and said: “That’s a palm …”

  “All right, all right,” he said and laughed with her.

  “Well, between those two trees it’s pretty safe. Come on.”

  The drinks were served on the veranda as the sun began its final descent into the sea. Presiding was a gray-haired Negro named Oliver, who moved with dignity in his white coat and smiled tolerantly at the remarks of John MacQuade.

  “You ever drink a rum swizzle, Jim?” MacQuade asked. “You might like it.”

  “Not if he’s a Martini drinker, he won’t,” Osborne said.

  “Well, Oliver?”

  “Coming right up, sir.”

  Sherry had been passed to Alma and MacQuade and now Oliver was working with a swizzle stick and pitcher, into which had been put—as far as Jim could see—nothing but ice, rum, simple syrup, and a dash or two of bitters. Rotating the stick between his palms until the mixture was well stirred, Oliver poured it still foaming into three small glasses and quickly passed them.

  MacQuade said: “Chin-chin,” and sipped his sherry.

  Osborne and Kate Royce tossed down their swizzles in one practiced movement. Jim took a swallow of his and found it pleasant, if a little sweet. He started to put the glass down when Osborne stopped him.

  “That’s not the way to do it.”

  “What he means,” Kate Royce said, “is that we drink them while there’s still a bead on the drink. Actually it doesn’t matter.”

  Jim said: “Oh,” and drained the glass.

  “A little sweet for you?” MacQuade said. “Another, Oliver. Just a dash of syrup this time.… I believe I’ll have a spot more of sherry too.”

  “Do you think you should?” Kate asked.

  “Never you mind, woman.” He glanced at Oliver. “Come, come, man.”

  Jim smiled at the pronunciation of the word, which came out as though spelled “mahn.” There were other words that had been corrupted by the natives and adopted by the colonials until it was difficult to tell by ear whether a white or a Negro was speaking. “Get the car, man!” was likely to sound more like: “Get de kyar mahn.”

  As the conversation flowed about him after the second drink he noticed that Osborne and Alma had none of this accent. Kate Royce used it occasionally but MacQuade’s manner of speaking was definitely Barbadian from long usage. As yet he had heard nothing at all of what he had expected most, an English accent. He wondered about this briefly before his mind moved on, and presently, whether from his weariness or the drinks, a feeling of lassitude came over him, a sense of well-being and accomplishment that was pleasant to contemplate.

  Things were working out much as he had hoped, the chief difference between anticipation and reality resolving itself in the thought that, considering the house and grounds, the three cars, the general feel of things, there was considerably more affluence in evidence than he had expected, a fact which seemed now to make his trip all the more worthwhile. If things worked out a share in this might really amount to something, and he found the thought a comforting one until some nebulous gong rang inside him to sound a faint warning. It was only then that he became aware that Kate Royce was watching him.

  He was not sure how he knew this, but having been thus alerted the conviction grew that she had been watching him for some time, not actually staring but observing him even as she talked to the others. The thought so disconcerted him that he turned slightly, not yet looking at her but glancing instead at Alma who caught his eye and smiled.

  She was wearing a tailored linen dress now, with a belt, and a scarf was loosely knotted about her throat. He smiled back at her, wondering why she seemed so much prettier than he had first suspected. It was, he decided, not her features as such but the clear, tawny skin, the way the dark hair framed her small face, the eyes. That was it. The eyes. Not their dark-blue color or spacing but their setting, with the natural shadows underneath and the long curling lashes.

  As she turned to answer MacQuade he looked at Kate Royce, meeting her glance squarely. She was leaning easily back in a padded wicker chair, a cigarette in one hand, the other toying with her empty glass. She had changed to a long print dress with a square-cut neckline, and her waved and well-groomed white hair was more striking than ever. Her face was strong-boned and distinguished, and he wondered if perhaps she was not more handsome now than she had been as a girl. The faintest of smiles touched her mouth at that instant and though he could detect neither suspicion nor dislike in her eyes he had the feeling that behind them a great deal of thinking was taking place. When he glanced away his uneasiness remained and he was glad when a servant appeared to announce dinner.

  It was quite dark when they returned to the drawing-room, and in the glow of the half-dozen floor and table lamps it assumed a character all its own, comfortable but, to Jim, unlike anything he had seen before. A huge room extending the depth of the house, its walls were like the exterior, except that they had been sealed and tinted the color of old ivory. There were two oils and four or five prints on the inner walls, nothing at all on the outer surfaces since this space was broken by a door and four windows at each end. Of conventional furniture such as Jim knew there was only a divan and two chairs; the remaining settees and chairs were of wicker, rattan, or canvas, all more comfortable than they looked and designed not only to keep the sitter as cool as possible but also to withstand the ravages of bugs, insects, and mildew which were indigenous to the island. Two halls opened from opposite sides of the room, one leading to the dining-room and a combination play-and-sun room, the other giving on the stairs and additional rooms that he had not yet seen. Two settees and the divan formed an open square, in the center of which was a mahogany coffee-table, and it was around this that they gathered for coffee and liqueurs.

  When John MacQuade had settled himself in one corner of the divan with his demitasse he indicated the place beside him. “Sit over here, Jim,” he said. “Bring your brandy with you.”

  Jim did as directed. The older man beamed at him, smiling, watching every move. It was as though he had been injected with some new tonic which had effected a miraculous if temporary cure, bringing color to his wrinkled skin and new interest to his eyes. This sort of attention moved Jim strangely but it embarrassed him too. He did not know where to look or what to say.

  “Well”—MacQuade cocked his head—“what do you think of it?”

  “I think it’s great.”

  “Glad you came? Worth the trouble, was it?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Thought you’d find it so.”

  In the unexpected silence that followed Jim groped for something to say and there was nothing he could use. The others helped not at all. Alma was
frowning at her coffeecup, an indication that her thoughts, whatever they were, were not entirely pleasant. Osborne and Kate Royce were watching again, the woman thoughtfully, the man disinterestedly. Then MacQuade made some remark about the estate and presently he was involved in some business argument with Osborne and Kate.

  They pressed their opinions vigorously and as the conversation flowed about him Jim’s feeling of uneasiness increased. When they continued to ignore him he moved unobtrusively off the divan and stepped to the table, not really wanting a drink but wanting to occupy himself with something. A glance told him that the others were still interested in the subject at hand so he strolled towards the door leading to the walk and court. He paused to sip his drink and look out into the night, then walked unconcernedly into the darkness.

  3

  THE walk which bordered the court extended the width of the house where it met the veranda extending along the other three sides. Moving to the left beyond the lighted room, Jim stopped in the shadows to consider the things that had happened since his arrival, but he had hardly made a beginning when he heard someone and turned to see Alma Simmons pass one of the lighted windows. She was moving towards him, peering straight ahead, but apparently her eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness, because she almost ran into him.

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “I wondered where you went.”

  “Just out for air.” He stepped from under the roof to look at a star-studded sky that seemed almost artificial in its perfection. “It’s lovely,” he said. “Is it always like this at night?”

  “Almost always,” she said matter-of-factly. “A little softer in the summer but never hot and sticky.”

  She was close beside him now and he could smell the fragrance of her hair. She had her head tipped back as she studied the stars and he examined the smooth clean line of her chin and throat until she became aware of his glance. He could not see too well in the darkness but he could tell that there was no smile on her face.

  “If you’ll hold this”—he gave her his glass—“I’ll light cigarettes.”

  She took the glass and then the lighted cigarette. For a while they stood like that and then she spoke abruptly.

  “Why couldn’t you have come before?” she said in a voice he had not heard.

  He looked at her, a little surprised at her sudden and unmistakable pique.

  “I guess I should have.”

  “I should think so.” She waved the cigarette with quick impatience. “Everyone else has been glad to do what he could and you come down here at the last minute—” She groped for a word and couldn’t find one.

  “I noticed that Kate Royce was not exactly cordial.”

  “Why should she be? Why should anyone?”

  He took a breath and kept his thoughts in hand, remembering now a phrase in the letter John MacQuade had sent to New York.

  “If you want to get your share,” MacQuade had written, “you’d better get down here in a hurry because the doctors don’t give me much time.”

  If he had stayed in New York the inference was that there would be no bequest. Until he had arrived these were the people who would divide the estate; now that the missing nephew had turned up each would come into a much smaller share. At least such was his guess at the moment.

  “What you mean,” he said dryly, “is that I raced down here to get under the wire and cut myself in on the estate.”

  “Nothing of the kind. I’m talking about Johnny. I don’t believe I understood how terribly he wanted you with him until I saw the two of you together on the couch and realized how much you’ve already done for him.”

  He started to interrupt and she stopped him. “Oh, I know he doesn’t look well—he isn’t—but before your cable came it was even more pathetic. You could have come last year, or the year before that. For a week or two at least. It would have meant so much to him and he—” She faltered and stopped, most of her irritation spent. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “I don’t know what right I have to tell you what you should do.”

  An embarrassed silence held them and now he was watching her, liking her spirit and no longer resentful because he knew she was right.

  “I wonder why,” he said finally.

  “Why what?”

  “Why it could mean so much. He only saw me once. For a summer sixteen years ago. If I had been his son you could understand it, and yet twice a year, on birthdays and Christmas, he’d send a letter and a check—”

  “And sometimes you didn’t even answer him.”

  “I know. That’s why I wonder he didn’t give up.”

  “I wondered too.” She paused, continued calmly. “You and I are the only real relatives he has and you’re the only man, but perhaps its more than that. A sort of fixation or complex that he’s built up in his mind. He still remembers that one summer and—well, if you’d actually come back and stayed a while he might have seen things differently.”

  He was not sure what she meant, so he waited and presently she explained.

  “I mean the absence itself has probably made him much more sentimental about the memory. Actually Johnny’s not the easiest man to cope with, you know. He’s stubborn, he doesn’t like to be crossed, and in some things, business things I understand, he’s pretty harsh. If you had been here you’d have had your clashes. I don’t mean serious ones actually, or that he would have disliked you, but that way you would have been a real person to him and have had reality instead of something he had only in his mind.… Up until now,” she said, “you’ve been more like a fictitious character than a real one.”

  He knew what she meant because until today the character of John MacQuade had seemed more fictitious than real to him.

  “What about you?” he said. “When did you come?”

  “Nearly four years ago. Right after my parents were killed in that accident. It seems like a long time.”

  “It is a long time when you’re young.”

  “I hadn’t intended to stay more than a few months. But I had no family and Johnny was persistent and did everything he could to make me happy. Every once in a while I’d make up my mind to leave. I wanted to go to New York and study design—I draw a little—and get a job. And I was packing to leave two years ago when he had the first stroke. After that I couldn’t go for a few months and somehow I stayed on and on.… I guess I’m glad I did now,” she said finally.

  The sound of her voice, the straightforward, unaffected way she spoke, made him feel good all over and he found a pleasurable excitement in her very nearness. Then, as his mind went on, he thought of something else more troubling.

  “Is it Mrs. Royce, or Miss Royce?”

  “Oh, Miss.”

  “Funny,” he said, “I didn’t know I had an aunt.”

  “You haven’t. I mean not in Kate at least. I just call her that. She was here when I came and—”

  “But who is she, really?”

  “A friend of Johnny’s.” She glanced up at him and now her fundamental friendliness asserted itself and her mouth softened in a smile. “Platonic of course. She’s a sister of some former partner of his; at least that’s how I understand it. She’s from British Guiana and she came here—oh, I don’t know how many years ago. Johnny was married at the time, and Kate stayed on, first as a sort of housekeeper I guess—Johnny’s wife wasn’t too well—and Kate had been brought up on a sugar plantation and she began to help out around the estate. Now she knows more about it than Johnny.…”

  She broke off as a car swung from the highway into the drive. She listened, head tilted, to the sound of its ancient motor and the clatter of its body. Then she giggled.

  “That should be Melvin Tenney, and Barbara. You know, the blonde you were so taken with on the beach.”

  “Was I taken with her?” he said, grinning.

  “You know you were.… Hi!” she called as the car rocked to a stop and the motor was cut.

  “Hi, yourself!”

  A woman’s voice replied, and a
blond head appeared in the lowered window. Then the door banged open on one of the smallest cars Jim had ever seen. It was too dark to tell its make but it looked like a high-slung prewar Austin, and from its depths Barbara Connant struggled to get out, muttering to herself in her exertion. She got one foot on the ground and finally, after the exposure of considerable brown bare thigh, the other. She wriggled her hips to shake the dress into its proper position, shrugged the neckline into place.

  “I don’t know why I torture myself like this,” she said in a voice that had overtones of an accent but a strictly American phraseology. “Why I haven’t suffered a dislocation I’ll never know. I love you dearly, Melvin,” she said to her companion, “but I simply cannot ride in this trap of yours.”

  “But you should, you know.” The answering voice was unmistakably British. “Periodically. So you won’t forget how the other half lives. Don’t you agree, Alma?”

  “Alma can hardly help herself if she persists in going out with you,” Barbara said. “I can.… Hello, darling,” she said to the girl. “Hello, Mr. MacQuade. Enjoy your swim?”

  “Melvin,” Alma said, “this is Jim MacQuade—Melvin Tenney.”

  They had been moving towards the main entrance and now the bright glow from one of the windows highlighted a thin, round-shouldered man with a bony bespectacled face and unruly straw-colored hair. He wore a white drill suit, frayed at the cuffs and a little small for him; his bow tie seemed faded and worn as he peered owlishly up at Jim and shook hands.

  “MacQuade?” he said. “You know, I knew a MacQuade in England. During the war. Same hospital ward. When I heard you were coming I wondered about it.”

  Jim stood still and held his breath, a sudden emptiness working inside him. He let go of the other’s hand, saw him turn to the women and chuckle.

  “Not the same one,” Tenney said; “not the same one at all.”

  “You never told me,” Alma said.

  “No.” Tenney turned towards the door. “I thought it highly unlikely. Just wondered.” Then, paying no attention to the blond Barbara, he slipped his arm inside Alma’s. “How have you been, dear?” he said, and drew her into the room.