The Sun Is God (21 page)

He walked away from the Germans and the Augustburg and their silly prattle and deep into these wonderful old plantations. He admired the breadth of these rubber trees and coconut palms. Nourished by a hot sun and constant rain, the volcanic soil here was dense and luxurious. This was how he imagined New Guinea was going to be when he read the pamphlets from the German agent in Cape Town. So thick was the canopy overhead that he barely felt the downpour intensify, or when it ceased again.

Soon he found himself at the north shore of the island where he was greatly surprised to see the three ladies, Miss Pullen-Burry, Countess Höhenzollern, and Fräulein Schwab, swimming naked in the sheltered black-sand sickle bay. Surprised not because of the intermittent thunder, rain, and prospect of lightning (that kind of eccentricity had ceased to astound him on Kabakon) but because he had assumed that Miss Pullen-Burry's relations with the other ladies were still somewhat strained. And yet here they were swimming together, laughing.

Will sat on a massive teak-tree trunk cast up upon the shore. A branch snapped behind him and Will turned to see the goblin face of Wilhelm Bradtke grinning at him. Bradtke also had a walking stick with him . . . or a stick that you would use to brain someone with.

“What are you doing here?” Will asked.

“I followed you,” the man said.

“May I ask why?”

“You wish to speak with me about Lutzow?”

Will nodded. Bradtke put down his stick, sat, and smiled. It wasn't a wholesome expression. Several of his teeth were missing and his gums were rotted. He was only about fifty years old, but he looked so emaciated and sick that he could have passed for a hundred. Flat on his back with his eyes closed, he would have made a very presentable corpse. Will remembered what Harry had said about the castration and shuddered.

“Where's your camera?” Will asked.

“I left it inside, it does not do well in the rain,” Bradtke said. “I am sending to Berlin for a better one. Are you interested in photography? Have you read Herr Joseph Lux?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Oh you must! His book
Künstlerische Kodakgeheimnisse
is a masterpiece. He argues that the camera will become the medium of choice in the twentieth century. Our century will be a visual century in a way no previous era has been. We will understand history and science and ourselves through images taken with the camera.”

“I see.”

“You
will
see. The camera is an agent of democracy. Amateurs will photograph and document the world. Do you understand what that means? No longer must we take our orders from the Church, or the State. We can preserve our own truth and nail down our own reality. A thing of vital importance in this Heraclitan age of ours.”

The women in the water laughed again. They were racing each other to a small island a hundred meters from the shore. Miss Pullen-Burry and Anna were swimming frog fashion but Helena was doing an extraordinary cartwheeling motion with her arms that propelled her through the water at a considerable velocity.

Will watched them and then returned to Bradtke's glum, saturnine face.

“If I can turn to Herr Lutzow's death . . .” Will began. “You are a man of some understanding, sir. How do you think Herr Lutzow died?” Will asked.

“Malaria, of course.”

“You've had several previous deaths here on Kabakon from malaria, I believe.”

“No, only one death on Kabakon. Two others died after they left here for Herbertshöhe.”

“The one who died, who was that?”

“Alfred Kuchen. He came out almost a year ago, but he only lasted two weeks on the island.”

“Where did you bury him?”

“Nowhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“We did not want to ritually pollute the island.”

“You buried him at sea?”

Bradtke nodded and then frowned. “Why do you think Lutzow's death was anything other than malaria?”

“Fräulein Schwab says she was with Lutzow when he died and she seems like a sensible and credible young woman.”

“Yes?”

“But there was a brief period of time when Lutzow was left unattended in his hut. I am trying to ascertain if anything untoward happened during this period.”

“Untoward like what?”

“Oh . . . anything,” Will said vaguely. “When were
you
informed that Lutzow had died?” Will asked.

“In the morning.”

“This would be Sunday morning?”

“If you say so.”

“Indeed I do. And who told you that Lutzow had died?”

“August told me.”

“Which August?”

“Engelhardt. Although I believe Bethman knew too. August woke him that night to confirm that Lutzow was dead.”

“Yes, because of his doctoring skills, I know,” Will said and sighed.

“I'm exhausted, I'm heading back!” the countess yelled to the other ladies. Will watched her clamber out of the sea, dry herself with a towel, and walk into the jungle.

“My problem is motive,” Will said with a sigh.

“Motive?”

“Why would somebody murder Lutzow? What is there to gain? Did you ever read Cicero?
Cui bono
? That is what Cicero wanted to know. Who benefits from Lutzow's death?”

“No one on Kabakon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. There was no possibility of fiduciary gain, for example. Money is irrelevant here. As you know our property is held in common. Each of the Sonnenorden owns an equal share.”

“The countess was angry with Fräulein Herzen for taking some of her items.”

“Of course. She was leaving the colony. The property would no longer be held in common. Here we are all equal partners in the island and its surroundings.”

“I see.”

“In any case, Lutzow was penniless. He came to us with no money or assets,” Bradtke said.

Will looked at the little German. The man's pinched face was pinched even more. There was something that Bradtke was not telling him. A thought occurred to Will and he let a half smile ruin the symmetry of his mustache.

“This man you mentioned, Joseph . . .”

“Lux.”

“His philosophy is to document everything?”

“Yes.”

“And you have been attempting to do that, here on Kabakon?” Will asked.

“I try to. All the important events, certainly.”

“So let me ask you something. Did you take a picture of Lutzow?”

“What do you mean? Of course I photographed Lutzow.”

“No Bradtke.
After
. Did you photograph him after he died?”

The little German looked at the soles of his feet.

“I think we both know that you did, didn't you, Herr Bradtke?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“I'm sure there were very good scientific reasons.”

Bradtke's face lightened. “Not for science. For posterity. To document the history of the community, “ he said.

Will leaned in confidentially, “I don't really need to know why you did it. But I do want to see the photograph.”

Bradtke shook his head emphatically. “I, I, I did not develop it, I . . .” he said.

Will leaned in toward Bradtke. “You see, Bradtke, this is the kind of thing that makes me worried. Why would you lie about something like that? What else have you been lying about? What else have you got to hide?”

Bradtke's face had taken on a panic-stricken expression. He fumbled for the right words and then in a whisper said: “It was for the history that is to be written. A hundred years from now. To make a complete record of our community . . .”

“A noble idea. So why keep it a secret?”

“The, uh, the ladies in particular may not perhaps have thought it in the best of taste. Fräulein Schwab, Helena . . . I think that perhaps they . . .”

Will put a big paw on the German's shoulder. “We'll keep it between us, I promise. Now, let's look at this photograph of yours.”

Bradtke saw that protest was useless.

They walked back together through the plantations, Will still feeling vulnerable, careful to keep Bradtke slightly ahead of him. When they reached the settlement Will followed Bradtke to his hut. It was identical in all respects to the other prefabricated dwellings but for an additional little windowless room off to one side which Bradtke called a “dark room.”

Bradtke kept his developed photographs in leather volumes on a shelf bordered by waxed arsenic. He took out a little red album, numbered XXI, and with due solemnity handed it to Will. Will took it and thumbed through rather dull pictures of plants, birds, and strange beetles until suddenly he came upon the post-mortem visage of Max Lutzow.

“This is the only one?” Will asked.

Bradtke nodded.

It was hard to examine in the dim light of the hut so Will removed it from the album and took it outside. It had obviously been taken in a hurry, a close-up of Lutzow's waxy yellow face. His eyes were closed, his lips on the turn from red to blue. Shades of grey, of course, in the photograph.

But it gave Will no additional information. Lutzow looked virtually the same as the corpse he had seen in the ice chamber in Herbertshöhe. No blood on the scalp, no overt signs of strangulation or drowning.

“When did you take this?” Will asked.

“The morning after he died.”

“Before the Australian came for him?”

“Yes.”

Will passed the picture back. Bradtke returned it to the album and set it carefully back on the shelf.

He was disappointed.

“Did the photograph help you with your investigation?” Bradtke asked.

“Perhaps,” Will said.

“Is there anything else I can assist you with?” Bradtke asked.

Will shook his head. “I don't think so. I will bid you a good day, sir. Oh, and Herr Bradtke?”

“Yes?”

“I carry a revolver, so if I were you I'd think twice before sneaking up on me again in the jungle. I was soldier, sir, and if I were surprised or alarmed I would be tempted to shoot first and deal with the consequences afterward. Do I make myself clear?”

And without waiting for an answer Will left Herr Bradtke and walked back across the piazza to the hut belonging to the Countess Höhenzollern.

16

THE COUNTESS, THE RUSSIAN, AND THE AMERICAN

W
ill entered the countess's hut without ceremony. She was at her writing desk, working on a letter. “Herr Prior! May I help you?” she asked, startled.

“I would like to ask you a few questions about Max Lutzow's death.”

“This is most inconvenient.”

“It will only take a moment. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Very well then.”

He sat on the ottoman next to the writing table. “Let me take you back to the evening of Lutzow's death. What do you remember of that night?”

“I was asleep, but Fräulein Schwab was with Max when he died, and she was so upset that she woke Fräulein Herzen and myself.”

“Did you see the body?”

“No. I comforted Fräulein Schwab in here.”

“Did you leave your hut at all that night?”

“Why would I?”

“Do you recall who was awake at that time? That night?”

“Fräulein Herzen, myself, Fräulein Schwab, the two Augusts, and I think Harry too.”

“Everyone else was told in the morning that Lutzow had died?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“And they were told he died of malaria?”

“He did die of malaria.”

“That's one possibility.”

“What other possibility could there be?”

“Murder.”

“But why would someone murder poor Max?”

“Why does anyone murder anyone? Money? Hatred? A
crime passionnel 
. . .”

“All of which are impossible here. Money is irrelevant on Kabakon and our passionate natures have been curbed.”

“Bethman seems to be quite a passionate fellow.”

“Our base instinct compels us, sometimes against our will. Bethman is working on controlling himself. He has made much progress on Kabakon. That is why he and we have come here, far from the dying lands of Europe where individual apotheosis and self-mastery is impossible.”

“And yet one passionate slip is all it takes to kill someone.”

The countess frowned. “You clearly do not understand our ways yet, Herr Prior.”

“I would like to ask you some questions about your family situation. You are of the Höhenzollern?”

“It will have to wait until another time, Herr Prior! I am busy with my correspondence! The departure of Fräulein Herzen, which you aided, has caused me considerable inconvenience,” the countess said.

“Madam, I merely—”

“Please do not make me raise my voice, sir!”

Will thought about insisting, but he was feeling poorly again and it would surely keep. He stood and bowed. “Another time then,” he said.

He exited the hut and walked across the piazza.

He found Kessler snoozing inside their hut. He sat down at the writing desk and tried to organize his thoughts.

The picture had been an apparent dead end. And yet . . . And yet, things were not quite right. He could not escape the feeling that he had missed something.

He stared out the window at the rain. He wondered what time it was.

One o'clock. Two? How long until dinner? What did one do to pass the time around here? He had a glass of whisky, put on his straw boater, and walked outside again. He must see this through until the end of the inquiry. Whom hadn't he spoken to about the particulars of Lutzow's death? The American, the Russian, August Bethman.

He marched to the hut two along from his own, which belonged to Misha Denfer and Jürgen Schreckengost. The men were playing whist. Will wondered what immortality would be like playing whist with these two all day long while it rained and rained and rained. Some fates really were worse than death.