John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

I got into Colombo before the American consul’s office closed. I went up in the creaking elevator and sat beside a desk while a blond young man looked over my passport. I stared out the window, across the big harbor. Rows of ships rode at anchor, and dozens of little craft moved lazily to and from the long docks. The air in the office was warm and sticky. Fans turned slowly overhead. The young vice-consul had a rash of prickly heat on the undersides of his tanned arms. Heavy traffic thundered in the street outside the open window.

At last he pushed the passport back into my hand. “How long do you plan to stay, Mr. Garry?”

“Indefinite. Maybe a week. Maybe a month.”

“You have... ah... sufficient funds, I imagine.”

“Plenty.”

“There’s a lot of theft here. Do you want us to hold some of it for you in the safe? Even traveler’s checks aren’t safe.”

I counted out three thousand in cash on the corner of his desk. He entered it in a book and gave me a receipt. I asked him about hotels, and he recommended one called the Galle Face. I phoned from his office and got a room.

The Galle Face is located at one end of a mile expanse of white sand beach not far from the center of the city. A high wall borders the beach, and a promenade walk runs the length of the wall. Beyond the walk is a wide green expanse with the asphalt highway curving wide around it. The Colombo Club, refuge of the sedentary planter, sits majestically on the far side of the road, gazing out to sea.

My room was on the fourth floor on the seaward corner near the green. I could sit on the edge of the bed and stare up a mile of beach, watch the couples strolling along the promenade, follow the horses as they were galloped across the green.

My room boy introduced himself as Fernando. He promised to serve me faithfully and always run to me when I rang for him. I gave him a five-rupee note to clinch the bargain, and it would almost have been possible to tie his grin around the back of his neck like a bib.

After I stuck my things around in various drawers, I took a shower and changed to cooler clothes. I went down to the big lobby and wrestled with the telephone directory. It was alphabetical only in spots. It took me nearly ten minutes to find an O’Dell. The name was Clarence J. O’Dell, 31 Galle Road. I had a leisurely dinner in the vast dining room. The food was fair, and not plentiful.

When I was through eating, a small string group climbed solemnly onto a stand at the end of the dining room and started bravely on some sour Chopin. I walked out and stood for a moment on the front steps of the hotel. It was dusk, and the surf seemed to boom more loudly than it had during the day. The rickshaw bells tinkled with a better noise than the music inside. I waved the white-bearded doorman away when he asked me if I wanted a cab. I walked up to the corner and found that, as I had expected, the Galle Road ran right by the hotel.

I walked almost a block before I found two numbers: 18 and 20. I was headed in the right direction. It was a neighborhood of big bungalows set far back behind high hedges and green lawns. I crossed the road and found 31. The number was set into the gatepost of the driveway. I walked up the drive, feeling tense and expectant. I hadn’t imagined the O’Dell that I wanted to see in such luxurious surroundings. I threw away my cigarette, a red glow arching into the grass, exploding in a tiny fountain of sparks.

Ahead, golden oblongs shone out onto the grass from the wide windows. As I approached the porch, a man stepped from behind a pillar and stood waiting for me. I peered at him and saw that it was a Singhalese in a white uniform.

“What does the master wish to see?” he asked politely.

“O’Dell Clarence O’Dell. I’m Howard Garry, and he doesn’t know me.”

“Who in the bloody hell’re you mumbling at, Pereira?” a voice boomed so close to me that I jumped. A big man stood on the porch, silhouetted by one of the windows. He was enormous, a flabby giant of a man.

“I’m Howard Garry. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. O’Dell. If you’re busy I can come back.”

“Not busy,” he roared. “Never busy. Come on in. Come in and sit. Have a drink. Pereira! Get this man what he wants. Scotch, rye, beer, anything.”

I told the boy to get me some brandy and water. I stared at O’Dell. He was at least six five and I guessed his weight at about three hundred and a quarter. He was naked, except for a big blue turkish towel around his fat waist. His flesh sagged on him, but I could see that there were muscles left under the flab. His face and hands were burned red by the sun. The rest of him was dead white. His wide deep chest was hairless.

There was something odd about his face. I stared at him rudely until I had figured it out. He merely didn’t have the coarseness of feature that you would expect with a man of that size. His nose was surprisingly delicate, and his lips were molded like a woman’s. I guessed that the loud voice and gruff manner were his way of proving to himself that he was a man.

“What’s your business, boy. Come on! Let’s get it over with.”

“Are you alone here, Mr. O’Dell?”

“Completely, except for four or five servants. Never can keep track of them. Wife and daughters’re in South Africa. Wretched place to be. Rather be here, eh?”

“I want to talk to you about something that happened well over a year ago. You went on a pleasure ride on an American boat. A small one. A Captain Christoff went overboard and was drowned. I’d like your story of what happened.”

“Good Lord, boy, I’ve told that a dozen times to your officers. Told ’em all about it. Blasted nuisance, you coming here like this. Clumsy beggar caused me enough trouble. What do you care? Whom do you represent?”

“Nobody. Just myself. I was his friend.”

“Suppose I told you that I’d give my story again to somebody with an official interest, but not to any bloody Nosey Parker?”

“I’d say you were being rude and unpleasant. I’d ask you what you’d have to lose by telling me about it. You don’t look busy.”

He threw his head back and laughed, great resounding yelps that rattled the walls. He wiped his eyes and rubbed the spilled liquor off his thigh. “Direct chap, aren’t you? Don’t you know that retired planters never look busy? We retired so we wouldn’t have to look busy. What do you want me to do, tell the whole thing in detail?”

I relaxed as the boy handed me a thick brandy and water. I sipped it. It was light on the water. “Just run through it once and hit the high spots. If I have any questions, I’ll stop you.”

He drained his drink, and Pereira scurried over and took the glass on a silver tray. “I had a bridge date with Constance Severence at the January Club. She happened to know Christoff. He was there. I—”

“Wait a minute. Who is Constance Severence?”

“A girl who lives here. Does some kind of clerk work in the Royal Navy. Good family. She lives at the Princess Hotel.”

“What’s the January Club?”

“Bridge and tennis. A half mile away. Nice place. As I was saying, we met Christoff, and we all had a few drinks. Then he wanted to take us on the ride. I wasn’t too keen about going, but Conny liked the idea. I went along. Had a few drinks on the boat and then went up forward. The spray felt good. Hot night. Sat on some roundish yellow things up there.

“Christoff was pretty intoxicated. He started toward the stern just as the man at the wheel made a big turn to go back. Constance thought she heard something, ran over to where he had gone around the edge of the main superstructure. No sign of him. She ran back to me, and I shouted to the man at the wheel. Boat was too noisy. He couldn’t make out what I shouted. Then I had to go up and yell in the beggar’s ear. He turned again and ordered the boat searched. No sign of the captain. Circled forever and couldn’t find him. Went back in and spent two weeks answering bloody silly questions.”