Twenty Blue Devils

'Certainly not,” said Bertaud.

Gideon repressed a sigh. It was looking like a long morning. “Colonel,” he said, “with your permission I'd like to show you what I found.'

'What you found,” Bertaud said, focusing his attention on him as if he hadn't really been aware of him before. “Forgive me, but you are...?'

'I'm a forensic anthropologist.'

'Ah, you're the gentleman who was going to examine the body?'

'Yes,” Gideon said, surprised. He'd thought that Bertaud had understood as much.

'He's famous in America,” John pointed out as Gideon winced. “They call him the Skeleton Detective. The Bureau uses him all the time for its biggest cases.'

This had the effect on Bertaud that Gideon might have predicted. One corner of a sleek gray eyebrow went up a few millimeters, the sharp, knowing eyes narrowed, the mobile lips pursed. “I see. Well, then, I am flattered that the great Skeleton Detective would concern himself in our small affairs. You were saying...?'

Gideon was starting to feel the way John did about Bertaud but where would it have gotten them to show it? The colonel held the cards, all fifty-two of them, and there was no point in antagonizing him any more than he already was. Gideon nodded politely and began to explain his findings. Impatient and preoccupied at first, Bertaud soon seemed to grow genuinely interested. After a few minutes he had the original file brought in, in hopes that the photographs might be sharper, but they were equally blurry. At one point Gideon had the impression that he was on the edge of swaying him, but in the end Bertaud remained unconvinced.

'No, Dr. Oliver,” he said with a sigh, “it's all extremely interesting but in the end simply not persuasive. What do we have after all is said and done?” He treated them to a full Gallic shrug—shoulders, mouth, chin, eyebrows, and hands. “A group of maggots that might or might not be—'

'A line of maggots,” John pointed out.

'A line, then. In any case it's simply not enough. I'm sorry, gentlemen. There will be no police interference. I cannot justify it.'

The interview was over but John wouldn't say die. “Not enough for what?” he demanded. “We're not asking you to bring charges, we don't want you to arrest anybody, we just want the body dug up so that Dr. Oliver here can have a look at it. Then you take it from there. Or don't take, depending on what turns up. We'll be long gone. What do you say?'

Bertaud shook his head. “I'm sorry.” He fixed them each in turn with a long, unmistakably cautionary gaze. “And that, I trust,” he purred, “is the end of it.'

'Well, that was sure a howling success,” Gideon said as they left the gendarmerie.

John shook his head with frustration. “God, that guy ticks me off. Did I tell you that before?'

'You told me before. But cheer up, you get under his skin too.'

'Yeah, that's something, I guess.” He took in a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “Doc, what the hell do we do now?'

'Go get some lunch, would be my suggestion.'

John responded with an abstracted nod. Inside his head he was obviously still arguing with Bertaud.

'Any suggestions as to where?” Gideon asked.

'What? No, we always stay out in Papara with Nick when we come over. We eat at his place. I don't know any restaurants. Where'd you eat yesterday?'

'I just grazed the stands at the market, but I remember a place on Pomare that used to be pretty good. Maybe it's still there.'

'Fine, whatever,” John said listlessly.

The Acajou was still there, much as Gideon remembered it, a pleasant, tile-floored place with a shaded dining veranda separated by a line of potted shrubs from the clamor and bustle of the street. They ordered Hinanos and sat beside the plants. The menu was much the same as it had been three years earlier, and John cheered up as soon as he saw it, as Gideon had hoped he might.

'Hamburger?” John said. “I never knew you could get hamburgers in Tahiti. What do you know about that?'

It was more than he'd said on the entire four-block walk to the restaurant. John was a complex man in some ways, but not so complex that the likelihood of a decent hamburger couldn't be counted on to set him to rights.

The waitress, clad in a flowered pareu that highlighted firm, silky shoulders, came smiling to take their orders. Like so many Tahitian women she might have stepped out of a Gauguin painting: effortlessly graceful, strikingly handsome, skin like beaten copper, a giant hibiscus blossom in her black hair (was there anyplace but the South Pacific where a huge red flower tucked behind one ear looked perfectly natural?), and exuding a lazy, good-natured sexuality as artlessly as the hibiscus released its heavy scent.

Gideon asked for the omelette espagnole.

'Hamburger,” said John.

She looked up from her pad, frowning charmingly. 'Pardon?'

'Hamburger,” John said again, 's'il vous plait.'

The s'il vous plait didn't help. She shook her head.

Gideon took a hand. “Ahmboorgaire,” he explained.