Twenty Blue Devils

more than five feet six inches tall, and somewhat hippy and short-legged when seen from behind. His uniform, like that of the other gendarmes, consisted of a pale blue shirt and dark blue pants. Unlike the others, however, he wore a perfectly knotted tie rather than leaving his shirt sensibly open at the throat, his pants were full-length trousers, not the rather skimpy shorts that were standard issue, and he had on a dark blue jacket, well cut to make the least of his absence of waist, and fitted out with a gleaming Sam Browne belt.

Either he was something of a martinet, thought Gideon, or he was well aware that his was not the type of build that would be at its best in a pair of short shorts. Gideon was betting on some of both.

The colonel turned from the window to look coldly at John. 'Brigadier-chef Didier on Raiatea is extremely competent. I have full confidence in him.” He paused, then said in that suave, sardonic voice: “And I approved the report personally.'

Even this was lost on John, who plowed ahead. “Well, yeah, I'm not criticizing him, but there are certain things you don't know...'

Bertaud listened without expression while John told him about his suspicions, about the accidents on the plantation, about the old gangland associations. To Gideon it sounded freshly outlandish; he could imagine what Bertaud was thinking.

When John was finished, Bertaud turned blandly to Gideon. “Is he really with the FBI?'

John, finally stung, flushed. “Yeah, I'm with the FBI,” he said angrily, “and all I need to know from you is a: Are you going to let us see the report or not? And b: What's going on with the exhumation order?'

'There is no exhumation order, I'm afraid.'

John's mouth opened and closed. “There—'

Gideon cut in. “I understand that it would have been filed with the health department. Let's see, that would probably have been—'

'There is no exhumation order with the health department.'

'Now look, Colonel,” John said, “Nick Druett told me he filed one. Are you telling us—'

'Your uncle did file such a request. Subsequently, he withdrew it.'

'Withdrew!' John exclaimed, jumping to his feet and leaning with both hands on Bertaud's desk. 'Why?'

'I suggest you ask him. Now, gentlemen, as enjoyable as this has been, my time is limited and I must—'

'Let's go, Doc,” John said abruptly.

Gideon rose. “Thank you for your help, Colonel.'

'One moment more, please, gentlemen,” Bertaud said. The transparent blue eyes held them. “I hope you will enjoy your stay in Tahiti, but I remind you that you are on French soil. I will tolerate no interference in island affairs. This is understood?'

John returned his stare. 'Oui, mon colonel!' he said.

And clicked his heels and saluted.

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Chapter 12

* * * *

'I am really steamed,” John said through clenched teeth. “I mean, I am really pissed! I mean, I really let that little crud get to me.'

'No kidding,” Gideon said. “Really?'

He had convinced John to stop for a cool-down beer at a sidewalk cafe a few blocks from the gendarmerie, in the heart of Papeete's downtown; a busy place with bright, cherry- colored canvas chairs, bright cherry-colored plastic tables, and a big, bright, cherry-colored canvas awning over everything that filtered the strong sunshine, letting through only a cool, watery, reddish glow that made it seem as if they were sitting on the bottom of a pink-lemonade ocean. Even the dust motes were rosy. Cafe Le Retro, it said on the awning. Pizzeria—Brasserie—Bar Americain. And if nothing else, at least the music on the speaker system was American: Elvis Presley crooning “Love Me Tender.'

'Eez he ghrreally weez zuh aef-bee-aie?” John mouthed, doing a savage, surprisingly good imitation of Bertaud. “What a prune.'

'He was just trying to be funny,” Gideon said. “It was a joke.'

'Sure.” John glowered at him over the table. “Did you think it was funny?'

'Of course I didn't,” Gideon said promptly, glad now that he'd managed to resist the impulse to laugh at the time. “But remember, you were getting on his nerves a little too.'

'Me!” John was flabbergasted. “What did I do?'

'Well, you did imply once or twice that an investigation that he signed off on might have been botched.'

John dismissed this with a grunt. “He's short, that's his problem. He's got a chip on his shoulder, and all anybody— what's the joke now?'

'Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I just don't remember you letting anybody get under your skin like this.” The waiter arrived with their order: two Hinano beers in squat brown bottles with labels that proclaimed them