James Benn - The White Ghost

“Not of the female persuasion, not yet anyway,” he said. “Captain Ritchie says it ain’t good for morale to have a few women around with so many guys who ain’t seen a dame in months.”

“The captain must not be the most popular officer around,” I said.

“Let’s say if he were laid up here, he wouldn’t have many visitors,” the clerk said. “Not like Lieutenant Kennedy. He’s got people coming to see him around the clock. Nice guy.”

“Yeah, he’s swell.” We stepped out the back, taking a well-trodden path to a shaded palm grove with island huts arranged on either side. They were built up on stilts, the walls made of woven palm fronds. The roofs were thatched and makeshift windows were propped up to let the air circulate. We went into the third hut, where four hospital beds were arranged around a central table. A card game was in progress. Bridge, by the look of things. No one was in bed nursing their wounds. VIP lounge, indeed.

“Hey guys,” I said, waving my hand in greeting. By the bottles on the table and the wrinkled clothing, it didn’t seem any of them were sticklers for rank. “I’m looking for Jack Kennedy. Is he around here somewhere?”

“Crash? He’s on a date,” one of the players said as he tossed back a shot of bourbon.

“A date?” I said. “The kind with a woman?”

“I guess you don’t know our Jack,” another guy said.

“Oh, I know him all right,” I said. Then I began to laugh. The table joined in, probably to be polite, because I couldn’t stop. I come halfway around the world to save Kennedy from a murder charge, and on this small island with no women, he’s out on a date.

Jack, you sonuvabitch.

“Nem blong mi Jacob Vouza,” a booming voice said in my dreams. “Hu nao nem blong yu?”

I opened one eye, struggling to remember where I was. Tulagi. The assistant district administrator’s house. Asleep, under mosquito netting.

“Wanem nao yu duim?”

All I could make out was a hazy silhouette in the door, sunlight filtering into the room at his back. I scrambled out from under the netting in my skivvies, still half asleep, to find an imposing figure standing square in the doorway, his arms crossed, shooting a glare at Kao, the houseboy who came with the joint. Kao was a skinny little kid. Our visitor looked like he could snap him in two.

“Your name is Jacob Vouza?” Kaz asked, sitting up on the edge of his bed. I could see he was working out what the native was saying.

“Ya, Sergeant Jacob Vouza. Blong Solomon Islands Protectorate Armed Constabulary. Twenty-five year. Retired. Now marine.” He pronounced the English words precisely, with some island dialect mixed in.

“Blong,” Kaz said, standing to face Vouza. “Belong? The name which belongs to you?”

“Ya,” Vouza said, speaking slowly as if to a pair of slow children, pointing to each of us with an exaggerated gesture. “Nem blong yu?”

“Nem blong mi Kaz. Nem blong him Billy,” Kaz said, keeping things simple. I pulled on my trousers and watched as Vouza and Kaz exchanged a few more words. Kaz was the one with the language skills, so I left the lingo to him as I took in the man before us.

He was dressed in a lap-lap , which looked like a sarong to me, but Kao had corrected me on that point last night. Vouza was tall, broad, bare-chested, and wearing a web belt with a mean-looking machete and a.45 automatic slung off it. His hair was thick and frizzy, his skin a dark, rich brown. He had a broad, flat nose and sharp eyes which kept a watch on Kaz and me as I cinched my own web belt and pistol.

The scars were something to behold. His chest, throat, and ribs were decorated with thick, knotted scar tissue. Not the puckered scar of a gunshot wound, or the scattered rips and tears from shrapnel. Knife or bayonet, I guessed. Kao squatted on the floor, gazing at Vouza with awe. Maybe fear.

“Sergeant Vouza is a retired constable,” Kaz said, turning to me. “From the neighboring island of Malaita. He says he works with the marines and the Coastwatchers organization.”

“You got all that from what he said?” I asked.

“He’s speaking Pijin, an island dialect. It is very closely related to English,” Kaz said.

Vouza threw a glance at Kao and said, “Kopi.” Whatever that meant, Kao ran out of the room, nodding his head and smiling.

“You mean pidgin?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” Kaz said. “Solomon Island Pijin is related to other Pacific dialects. Pidgin is a less precise term. Pijin is a trade language, originating with the first whalers who visited these islands in the last century. It allowed the natives and the seamen to speak a common language. A quite interesting evolution, actually.”

“I’m sure,” I said, cutting Kaz off before he composed a monograph on the subject. “But why is he here?”

“I gather he wants to know why we are here,” Kaz said.

“Does he know Daniel Tamana?” I asked, looking to Vouza for a reaction. His eyes widened for a split second at the mention of the victim’s name.

“Mi wantok blong Daniel,” Vouza said. “Angkol.”

“Angkol?” Kaz repeated. “Uncle? You are Daniel’s uncle?” Vouza nodded solemnly.

“Wanem nao yu duim?” It was the same thing he said when he first came into the room. I was beginning to get the hang of this. Most of the words were English, pronounced with a unique accent, and perhaps a slight speech impediment.

“What are we doing?” I guessed.

“Now,” Kaz added. “What are we going to do now?”

Vouza nodded, folding his arms across his massive chest and waiting.

“We are here to find out who killed Daniel, and why,” I said. Another nod. Then I smelled coffee brewing, and I learned another Pijin word. Kopi. I needed some.

We sat on the verandah, the three of us sipping steaming kopi while Kao worked his magic with powdered eggs and Spam. Vouza was silent, content with the view and his sugared brew.

“Do you think he plans to stick with us?” I asked Kaz.

“I sense he may be impatient, and with good reason,” Kaz said. “If Captain Ritchie has done nothing so far, the trail has certainly gone cold.”

“We need to talk to Jack and check out the scene of the crime,” I said. “Then find out who may have had a beef with Daniel. The sergeant should be able to help with that, at least among the natives.”

“Yes, and the Coastwatchers as well,” Kaz said. “We need to find someone among the navy personnel who isn’t worried about offending Captain Ritchie. We should talk to Commander Cluster before he leaves.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t seem the type to worry about a pencil pusher like Ritchie,” I said.

“Have you spoken with Captain Ritchie?” Kaz asked Vouza, who had made a sour look at the mention of the name.

“Nomata yu talem hem, baebae hem i no lisen. Hem i nating savvy,” Vouza said as Kao came out with the breakfast plates.

“No matter what you tell him,” Kaz said slowly, replaying the Pijin words in his mind, “he will not listen. But I do not understand ‘nating savvy.’”

“He understands nothing,” Vouza said, in British-accented English, tucking into his Spam, which disappeared as quickly as his Pijin. I heard Kao chuckling as he brought out more coffee.

“I did notknow your purpose,” Vouza said as we drove to the hospital. He was going to a nearby villa where his Coastwatcher boss was headquartered. “I wanted to hear you speak when you thought I would not understand.” He spoke slowly, his voice not quite right, the words slurred and thick. I wondered if the scar on his neck had anything to do with that.

“You speak English very well,” I said.