However, I wanted a talk with him before the boats came in; so I disposed of the Marquis safely. It was not difficult: the police were having a dance on the green near the Government jetty, and he had only to hear of it to be off like a bandicoot. Then I went down the curious little main street that is so like something in a theater, with its primly built offices and stores on one side, and the palms, and the flaming blue sea, and the great carved canoes from Misima Island on the other, to the tin shanty where George the Greek was to be found.
I bought some of his rubbishing curios for a commencement, taking care to inform him that I had a French nobleman tourist in tow, as I knew well George the Greek wasn’t likely to suppose I wanted the stuff for myself. And I made the transaction seem natural by demanding a percentage on the sale, and getting it, too. (Of course, I handed it over to the Marquis afterward.) By this time the little beast was quite pleasant and friendly, and disposed to talk, so I proposed an adjournment to the hotel, intending to pump him cautiously as to the natives employed in the fleet. He took his keys and began shutting up shop; it was near closing time already, and they don’t take much stock of hours in an island town. I had a good look at him while he locked up, and liked him not at all. I had never seen him so close before.
He was good-looking, but unpleasantly so—black, shiny eyes, too large, with lashes too long; hooked Mephistophelian nose; jet-black curls like a spaniel’s; boot-brush mustache—all cheap and gaudy and smart-looking, and all a bit greasy, somehow. He had horrible little soft hands, with turn-back fingers; and his figure, though good, was as twisty and wriggly as a snake’s. It came upon me right then that if there was a man in New Guinea likely to give us trouble about that stone (should any breath of the secret creep out), there he stood—George the Greek.
We didn’t get our talk in the hotel, after all. Before the Greek had done locking up, the natives raised a cry of “Sail-O!” and we ran out to see if by any chance it was the fleet. The hour was too early. I scarcely expected anything but some stray cutter up from Port Moresby or the East.
But it was the fleet—two hours before its time. We saw the thin masts pricking like black needles against the sky, a long way off, as we stood among the trails of pink beach convolvulus, looking into the Straits. We saw the hulls rise up above the sea-line, and the shapes of the little vessels appear, and then——
“Ba God, dey’re half-masted!” said the Greek.
“Half-masted!” repeated the Marquis, who had just turned up, the dance being done. “But that signifies death!”
“That’s right,” I said. “Some one in the fleet’s dead. That’s why they are coming home early, and have their flags half-masted. Look, you can see now—every boat’s got it.”
“What was the name of the boat that came recruiting?” asked the Marquis.
“The Gertrude,” I said, treading sharply on his toe. He took the hint angelically.