hurry he had evidently let it slip to the floor. He pushed the letter into the envelope, beckoning Ventress into the room. Thank you, I didn’t realize …’
Ventress glanced around the room. Since disembarking from the steamer he had changed noticeably. The laconic and off-hand manner had given way to a marked restlessness. His compact figure, held together as if all the muscles were opposing each other, contained an intense nervous energy that Sanders found almost uncomfortable. His eyes roved about, searching the shabby alcoves for some hidden perspective.
‘May I take something in return, Doctor?’ Before Sanders could answer, Ventress had stepped over to the larger of the two suitcases on the slatted stand beside the wardrobe. With a brief nod, he released the catches and raised the lid. From beneath the folded dressing-gown he withdrew his automatic pistol wrapped in its shoulder-holster harness. Before Sanders could protest he had slipped it away inside his jacket.
‘What the devil—?’ Sanders crossed the room. He pulled the lid of the suitcase into place. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve …!’
Ventress gave him a weak smile, then started to walk past Sanders to the door. Annoyed, Sanders caught his arm and pulled the man almost off his feet. Ventress’s face shut like a trap. With an agile swerve he feinted sideways on his small feet and wrenched himself away from Sanders.
As Sanders came forward again Ventress seemed to debate whether to use his pistol, and then raised a hand to pacify the doctor. ‘Sanders, I apologize, of course. But there was no other way. Try to understand me, it was those idiots on board I was taking advantage of—’
‘Rubbish! You were taking advantage of me!’
Ventress shook his head vigorously. ‘You’re wrong, Sanders. I assure you, I have no prejudice against your particular calling … far from it. Believe me, Doctor, I understand you, your whole—’
‘All right!’ Sanders pulled back the door. ‘Now get out!’
Ventress, however, stood his ground. He seemed to be trying to bring himself to say something, as if aware that he had exposed some private weakness of Sanders’s and was doing his best to repair it. Then he gave a small shrug and left the room, bored by the doctor’s irritation.
After he had gone Sanders sat down in the arm-chair with his back to the window. Ventress’s ruse had annoyed him, not merely because of the assumption that the customs men would avoid contaminating themselves by touching his baggage. The smuggling of the pistol unknown to himself seemed to symbolize, in sexual terms as well, all his hidden motives for coming to Port Matarre in quest of Suzanne Clair. That Ventress, with his skeletal face and white suit, should have exposed his awareness of these still concealed motives was all the more irritating.
He ate an early lunch in the hotel restaurant. The tables were almost deserted, and the only other guest was the dark-haired young Frenchwoman who sat by herself, writing into a dictation pad beside her salad. Now and then she glanced at Sanders, who was struck once again by her marked resemblance to Suzanne Clair. Perhaps because of her raven hair, or the unusual light in Port Matarre, her smooth face seemed paler in tone than Sanders remembered Suzanne’s, as if the two women were cousins separated by some darker blood on Suzanne’s side. As he looked at the girl he could almost see Suzanne beside her, reflected within some half-screened mirror in his mind.
When she left the table she nodded to Sanders, picked up her pad and went out into the street, pausing in the lobby on the way.
After lunch, Sanders began his search for some form of transport to take him to Mont Royal. As the desk-clerk had stated, there was no railway to the mining town. A bus service ran twice daily, but for some reason had been discontinued. At the depot, near the barracks on the eastern outskirts of the town, Dr. Sanders found the booking-office closed. The time-tables peeled off the notice-boards in the sunlight, and a few natives slept on the benches in the shade. After ten minutes a ticket-collector wandered in with a broom, sucking on a piece of sugar-cane. He shrugged when Sanders asked him when the service would be resumed.
‘Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, sir. Who can tell? The bridge is down.’
‘Where’s this?’
‘Where? Myanga, ten kilometres from Mont Royal. Steep ravine, the bridge just slid away. Risky there, sir.’
Sanders pointed to the compound of the military barracks, where half a dozen trucks were being loaded with supplies. Bales of barbed wire were stacked on the ground to one side, next to some sections of metal fencing. ‘They seem busy enough. How are they going to get through?’
‘They, sir, are repairing the bridge.’
‘With barbed wire?’ Sanders shook his head, tired of this evasiveness. ‘What exactly is going on up there? At Mont Royal?’
The ticket-collector sucked his sugar-cane. ‘Going on?’ he repeated dreamily. ‘Nothing’s going on, sir.’
Sanders strolled away, pausing by the barrack gates until the sentry gestured him on. Across the road the dark tiers of the forest canopy rose high into the air like an immense wave ready to fall across the empty town. Well over a hundred feet above his head, the great boughs hung like half-furled wings, the trunks leaning towards him. Sanders was tempted to cross the road and approach the forest, but there was something minatory and oppressive about its silence. He turned and made his way back to the hotel.
An hour later, after several fruitless inquiries, he called at the police prefecture near the harbour. The activity by the steamer had subsided, and most of the passengers were aboard. The speed-boat was being swung out on a davit over the jetty.
Coming straight to the point, Dr. Sanders showed Suzanne’s letter to the African charge-captain. ‘Perhaps you could explain, Captain, why it was necessary to delete their address? These are close friends of mine and I wish to spend a fortnight’s holiday with them. Now I find that there’s no means of getting to Mont Royal, and an atmosphere of mystery surrounds the whole place.’
The captain nodded, pondering over the letter on his desk. Occasionally he prodded the tissue with a steel ruler, as if he were examining the pressed petals of some rare and perhaps poisonous blossom. ‘I understand, Doctor. It’s difficult for you.’
‘But why is the censorship in force at all?’ Sanders pressed. ‘Is there some sort of political disturbance? Has a rebel group captured the mines? I’m naturally concerned for the well-being of Dr. and Madame Clair.’
The captain shook his head. ‘I assure you, Doctor, there is no political trouble at Mont Royal – in fact, there is hardly anyone there at all. Most of the workers have left.’
‘Why? I’ve noticed that here. The town’s empty.’
The captain stood up and went over to the window. He pointed to the dark fringe of the jungle crowding over the roof-tops of the native quarter beyond the warehouses. ‘The forest, Doctor, do you see? It frightens them, it’s so black and heavy all the time.’ He went back to his desk and fiddled with the ruler. Sanders waited for him to make up his mind what to say. ‘In confidence, I can explain that there is a new kind of plant disease beginning in the forest near Mont Royal—’
‘What do you mean?’ Sanders cut in. ‘A virus disease, like tobacco mosaic?’
‘Yes, that’s it …’ The captain nodded encouragingly, although he seemed to have little idea what he was talking about. However, he kept a quiet eye on the rim of jungle in
