The Lower Deep (2 page)

Then, recalling why and how Driscoll had come here, Steve shook his head. It would never cease to amaze him, how this man had fallen heir to the Azagon. The tale was straight out of the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen.

A filthy rich New York architect builds a resort hotel on a Caribbean island because his beautiful actress wife thinks it would be a dandy place to relax when she is not making pictures. The beautiful wife becomes an alcoholic. Dr. Tom Driscoll, whose specialty is alcoholism, applies all his know-how to her case and dramatically saves her from boozing herself to death. By doing so, he earns the undying gratitude of her husband, who has never stopped adoring her.

Soon afterward the hotel founders—as anyone with a brain the size of a hummingbird's could have predicted. Out of gratitude, its millionaire owner urges Driscoll to accept it as a gift because "It's just what you need for your patients, Tom. A nice quiet retreat only a few hours from the States, where your people can get away from all the stress. Take it for the miracle you worked with Ellen!"

Yes, indeed. The Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian would have loved it.

Steve let go of the man's hand. "Just why did you send for me, Tom? What's happening here?"

"Steve—God help me—I wish I knew what's happening?"

"You mean you don't?"

"No, I don't. It's all so damned weird. So mysterious. So damned St. Joseph. You've worked in St. Joe. You know what I mean." In only a moment Driscoll's face had grown even older.

Steve knew he should back off. "Do you want to talk about it now, or should we wait?"

"I think later."

"Later it is." Glancing at Paul Henninger, Steve got the slight nod he expected and gently withdrew his hand from Driscoll's weak grip. He and Henninger departed.

As they paced the corridor, the overheavy manager said quietly, "You've known Dr. Driscoll a long time, haven't you, Dr. Spence?"

"For years. Three of which we worked together at the Brightman, until I left there two years ago. You know the Brightman, I suppose." Was there anyone in St. Joe who didn't know about that remarkable hospital in Fond des Pintards? Or about the American industrialist who had built it with his own money and then even become a doctor so he could better serve the poor of this backward island?

"The Brightman. Yes," Henninger said.

"I worked under Dr. Driscoll there and never stopped admiring him. We all admired him. Hell, we all loved him."

The manager looked pleased. "Well, then, good
bye for now, Doctor. I expect you'll want to talk to me again after you've looked the place over."

"I'll want to know how things are done here, yes."

"You'll find an information packet in the top drawer of your dresser. The various schedules, who we have for doctors and nurses, who the current patients are—the whole bit. I've been putting it together for the past week or so. And, of course, there are complete files in the office. We dine at seven, by the way."

"Thanks."

"If you want me before then, I'll be in the library, downstairs. My office is there. No doubt you'll be using Dr. Driscoll's office, off the lobby."

"If you say so."

"Well, then—"

But as the big man turned away, Steve reached out to stop him. "Wait, please, Paul. What was Tom Driscoll trying to tell me just now? What the hell is going on here at the Azagon?"

"I wish I knew, Dr. Spence. I mean I know what's happening, but I'm not sure what's behind it. Unless—"

"Unless what?"

"Well, Dame Marie
is
a hotbed of voodoo."

"Meaning?"

"Maybe the voodoo people resent our being here. After all, their
houngans
claim to be doctors, too. Of course"—Henninger spread his big hands, palms up—"maybe you don't put any stock in—"

"I've tangled with voodoo before. Believe me."

The manager stared. "There's also the name of this place, Doctor."

"I know." How, for God's sake, had the Azagon come by its unlikely name, anyway? Through yet another whim of the builder's actress wife? If so, she'd been as stupid as she was gorgeous.

A hotel in a place like this couldn't exist for outsiders only. One had to consider the attitude of the locals.

And in the pantheon of voodoo gods, Azagon was a
loa
associated with darkness, death, and cemeteries!

W
ith his door shut, Steve flipped his overnight c
ase onto the bed, opened it, and tossed its contents into a dresser drawer.

The room was almost dark now. Instead of switching on a light, he went and stood at a window, gazing out at the nearby shore. It seemed to consist of a pale strip of deserted beach at the edge of a vast grayness. This Azagon really was on the edge of nowhere.

Come to think of it, why had old Tom Driscoll kept that voodoo name for the place? It was a retreat for alcoholics now, not a resort hoping to lure trade with sly hints of occult adventures.

A knock on his door made him reach for a light switch and call, "Come in!" The door opened with a flourish.

"Well, I'll be—" Steve took a long stride forward and thrust out a hand. "No one told me you were here, Juan!"

Dr. Juan Mendoza pumped the hand and grinned. Younger than Steve, he could have passed for a professional athlete. One with raven hair, near-black eyes, the whitest of teeth.

"It's been a long time, Steve."

"Sit. Are you on the staff here or just visiting?"

"Neither. I'm a patient."

"What?"

"After I quit the hospital in Florida and moved to New York, I had a breakdown. Muddled along there for a while, getting nowhere, then offered to help Driscoll out here if he'd let me come for a change of scene. He seemed more than willing."

"I'm not surprised you folded, the way you were rushing at things."

Mendoza's laugh was like the face it came out of, full of vigor and high spirits. Everything about this man was handsome, Steve thought. Even the unstudied but graceful way he straddled a chair backward.

Juan Mendoza should have been a ballet dancer, not a doctor. He would have been superb in some of the modern ballets. As a medic—well, he was at least dedicated. But he became dedicated to everything that caught his fancy, didn't he? In Florida it had been harness racing at Pompano Beach—from the sulky seat, not the betting windows. Tomorrow it could be hang gliding.

"All right, Juan. You came here for a change of scene and to help Tom. What else are you doing?"

"Nothing much."

"Ha!"

"No, really. A bit of scuba diving and such. That's all."

"Scuba diving where?"

"Oh, roundabout. There's an old buccaneer island just off the coast here. Ile du Vent, it's called now, but Henry Morgan and the Brethren of the Coast used it back in those great old days. Oops. Sorry." Mendoza laughed. "I'm forgetting you're an old hand in St. Joseph."

"I've never been to Ile du Vent."

"Well, then, I can tell you the channel between it and the mainland is full of the most fantastic reefs. I've been poking around out there."

Steve frowned. "That doesn't seem the best way in the world to get over a breakdown."

"Hell. Do I look broken down now?"

No, you don't, Steve decided. You look like a young daredevil who could swim all the way to Florida, shouting for joy at every stroke.

Juan Mendoza glanced at the watch on his wrist and said, "But let me get what I came here for, hey? I mean, why I came now instead of waiting until you were settled in." Leaving his chair, he walked to the bed and reached under it to slide out a cardboard carton. "Until yesterday this room was mine, and I forgot my charts and books when I moved out." With the carton under one arm, he thrust his hand out again. "Steve, it's great to have you here. Just great!"

The parting handclasp echoed the vigor of the voice. Those fingers, Steve thought, could probably break rocks without a hammer.

Mendoza opened the door. A middle-aged black
man in black trousers and a white shirt stood there, seemingly about to knock.

"Yes?" Steve said.

Did he know the man? Something about him—"Our cook," Mendoza volunteered.

"Oh?" Here was a chance, Steve decided, to find out how rusty his St. Joe Creole was.
"Comment yo rélé ou, compère?"

"Ti-Jean Lazaire, m'sié."

I don't know the name, Steve thought, but I do know the face. "Have we met before?" Again he used the peasant tongue.

Was there a slight hesitation? He could not be sure. It might have been because his Creole was not too good. Yet the reply indicated understanding. "I—do not believe so,
m'sié."

"We'd better talk English. You speak it, of course?" To work in a place like this the man would have to, wouldn't he?

"Yes, Doctor."

"You're certain we haven't met before?"

"I would remember if we had."

"Well, all right. What can I do for you?"

"I came to ask if there is something special you would like for dinner to celebrate your arrival. Some St. Joseph dish, perhaps, that you enjoyed when you were in my country before."

"When I was at the hospital in Fond des Pintards, you mean."

"Yes."

"Have you been there? Is that where we might have met?"

This time there
was
a hesitation; Steve was sure
of it. But Lazaire shook his head. "No, Doctor. I don't know that part of the island."

"How did you know I worked there, then?"

"Dr. Driscoll mentioned it when he told me you were coming."

"I see." I don't see. And I don't think I wholly believe you, friend, though I can't imagine why the hell you might be lying. "Well, all right. To answer your question, there are several St. Joe dishes I'm really fond of, but not this evening, thanks. I appreciate your coming to ask me, though."

"You are welcome to visit my kitchen at any time, Doctor."

"Thanks. I'll be doing that, of course."

"Au revoir, m'sié. Mange bien."

The fellow departed.

"You know, Steve," Juan Mendoza said, "I could live here a lifetime and never learn to handle their Creole the way you do."

"I didn't handle it too well with Lazaire, I'm afraid. I've forgotten a lot."

"What did he mean by 'Mange bien'?"

"'Eat well.'"

"What kind of remark is that?"

Steve wondered, too, but shrugged. "After all, he's the cook, isn't he? Wait a minute, Juan." By holding up a hand, he stopped Mendoza's progress to the door. "Don't be in such a hurry, please. I need to know what's going on here. And I don't-mean the usual things that happen in a place of this sort."

"What do you mean?"

"Why did Tom Driscoll send for me?"

"He's had a stroke, Steve. Maybe only a light one, but he's had one, though he won't admit it."

"Good God. Are you sure?"

"Well, no, we can't be sure, but we think so. He was taking hydrochlorothiazide to bring down his blood pressure, and it may have upped his cholesterol. And he's tired. Bone tired. Feeling every day of his age."

"He isn't scared half to death about something, too?"

"Maybe." Mendoza shrugged as he turned to the door again. "But sometimes this place is enough to give all of us the creeps. I think if I were Driscoll I . . . well, skip it. I should mind my own business."

The door closed on his "Good night, old buddy" before Steve could question him further.

Had the manager said dinner was at seven? Steve looked for a meal schedule in the briefing folder Henninger had left in his dresser drawer, and was glad to know his memory was still working properly. He had begun to think the Azagon's creepy atmosphere was getting to him.

His watch said 6:55. Hungry enough to eat anything the cook might offer, he went downstairs.

As he paused to get his bearings in the doorway of what had once been an elegant hotel dining room, a quiet voice behind him said, "Hi, there, Steve Spence," and he felt a hand on his arm.