CHAPTER II
ANOTHER ISLAND NIGHT’S ENTERTAINMENT
Late in 1930, shortly before I broached the egg-and-brandy riddle to Mr. Fosdick, the beautiful yacht Zaca pulled in at Suva. Templeton Crocker, who had inherited richly from banks and mines in California, was taking friends on a world cruise. He had a thirst for anthropology and scientific exploration, and it was rumored that he might later equip his fine ship for research in far places. I am afraid my sigh was a bit envious as I watched the Zaca steam gracefully in. I had scoured the southern seas in so many tubs, junks, bumboats, leaky launches and cockroach-ridden steamers that my bones ached at the very thought of them. Crocker’s explorations were de luxe; most of mine had been de louse.
Templeton Crocker came to my office, a well-favored man in his late forties, pleasant and almost boyishly anxious to learn. He seemed much impressed because I was just back from Rennell Island and its little neighbor, Bellona. Did they come up to my expectations? Yes, I said, when you fly to the moon you may be sure it will come up to your expectations. His curiosity was on edge; had I taken notes, could he see some of them? I handed him a small batch of rough dictation, not enough to tell him all by any means. I could see by his excitement that Rennell Island had the same pull on his imagination that it had had on mine all the eight years that I had awaited an opportunity to see it.
When we dined on the Zaca the owner showed me around and explained that she was an enlarged “bluenose.” The main dining room was also the lounge, but the Crocker party ate mostly on deck, tropical style. Everything was roomy, the cabins plain but comfortable, equipped with electric lights and fans. Gus Schmidt, who managed the galley, was a real chef, and there were quantities of refrigerators to help him out. The ship carried what they called “frozen foods”—Idaho steaks, Long Island duck, fresh peas and strawberries—about all the luxuries for which we tropicals were hungry. Crocker had a plentiful supply of wines, used with judgment; when there was an occasion for it he could surprise you with a rare vintage.
He was at our house a great deal, always asking about Rennell Island. When he didn’t dine with us he dropped in for a rum cocktail. We played bridge, and I was surprised to find that he was making money; a rare feat in Suva, where the game is sharp as a razor blade. When we dined on the Zaca my inner mind kept exclaiming, “Think of following a health campaign on a ship like this!”
The night before his boat sailed he came around with my notes; I knew he couldn’t have made much out of them, the stuff was so scrambled. At dinner I complimented him on the Zaca’s cook, and he said the great trouble was getting fresh eggs. On the Zaca’s long hauls even refrigeration wouldn’t keep them fresh. I mentioned doing something about it—then Eloisa gave me the matrimonial look. Wherever Eloisa settled down, she started to raise chickens; she had a way with chickens.
But on Crocker’s mind there was something heavier than an egg. It was Rennell Island, I knew before he had said a word. Finally he said, “I wish you would tell me all about that trip.” He and I were having coffee on the veranda, and I said, “You remember that girl of the Arabian Nights who had to tell the sultan a story between dark and dawn—or else? Well, we’d better have a fresh pot of coffee, because this story is going to be pretty long.”
“I can stand it,” he said, and waited for me to begin.
******