The Black Camel/Chapter 12

THE night was breaking, and a gray mist lay over Waikiki. Smith, the beach-comber, shivered slightly and stirred on his bed of sand. He put out his hand, as though to draw up over his thin ill-clad body a blanket that was not there. Turning over, he muttered in his sleep, then lay motionless again.

The gray mist turned to pink. Above the mountains to the east a small segment of sky became a deep gold in color, against which a few scattered clouds stood out, black as the recent night. Smith opened his eyes, and gradually came back to a recognition of his surroundings. He did not choose to sleep on the beach, but for some reason the usual bitterness with which he awoke to the realization that he was broke again was missing to-day: Something pleasant had happened—or was about to happen. Ah, yes. He smiled at the hau tree above him, and the tree showered him with mahogany-red blossoms that had been yellow when he retired for the night. He would have preferred grapefruit and coffee, but flowers were more in keeping with the scene.

He sat up. The gold in the eastern sky was spreading, and now the rim of the sun appeared. The snow-white beach was lapped by water that had in it a glint ​of gold to match the sky. At his left stood Diamond Head, that extinct volcano. He had always a sort of fellow feeling for Diamond Head, being a bit on the extinct side himself. His mind went back to the events of the preceding night. Good fortune had taken him by the hand and led him to that pavilion window. Too often in these last years he had been blind to opportunity. He was resolved that he would not be blind now.

He got to his feet and, removing his scanty clothing, revealed underneath a frayed pair of bathing trunks. Gathering all his courage, he ran down to the water and plunged in. The shock revivified him. He struck out boldly; one thing at least he had learned on tropic beaches, and that was the art of the swimmer. As he cut through the water the wasted years fell away from him, old ambitions returned, he made plans for the future. He would win back to his former self, he would leave this languorous spot where he had never intended to stay anyhow, he would be a man again. The money that would put his feet back on the high-road was finally within his grasp.

The sun, warm and friendly, crept up the eastern sky. Smith plunged far under the waves, swam there, felt more energetic with every exploit. Finally he returned to shallow water, and walking carefully to avoid the coral, came from his bath back to his bedroom. For a time he sat, leaning against the abandoned hulk of a boat in the shelter of which he had spent the night. The hot sun served as his towel, and he rested, at peace with the world. A delicious feeling of laziness spread over him. But no, no—this wouldn’t do.

He donned his clothes, took a broken piece of comb from his pocket, and applied it to his yellow beard and ​hair. His toilet was completed, and breakfast was now the order of the day. Above him hung clusters of coconuts; often these had been forced to serve. But not this morning, he told himself with a smile. Through a scene of brightness and beauty, he walked slowly toward the Moana Hotel. It was a scene that had, in its way, contributed to Mr. Smith’s downfall, for every time he sought to paint it, he threw down his brush in disgust and bemoaned the inadequacy of his talent.

On the sand outside the hotel, an early beach-boy lay strumming a steel guitar and singing a gentle song. Smith went promptly to join him.

“Good morning, Frank,” he said.

Frank turned his head. “Hello,” he answered dreamily. The beach-comber sat down beside him. Suddenly Frank looked at him, his dark eyes wide and earnest. “I’m not going to sing for tourists to-day,” the beach-boy announced. “I’m just going to sing for the blue sky.”

Smith nodded. Coming from any other race, this would have been a stilted and theatrical remark, but the beach-comber knew his Hawaiians better than that. He had watched them arrive each morning on their beloved beach, staring at it as though its beauty were brought to their attention for the first time, diving into its familiar waters with cries of delight that betokened a happiness rare in this modern world.

“That’s the ticket, Frank,” Smith nodded approvingly. He suddenly introduced a more practical note. “Got any money?” he inquired.

The boy frowned. What was this money all the haoles seemed so interested in, so vocal about? It meant nothing to him, and never would.

​“I guess so,” he replied casually. “Dollar in my coat, I think.”

Smith’s eyes glittered. “Lend it to me. I'll pay it back before night. All the rest I owe you, too. How much do I owe you, anyhow?”

“Can’t remember,” Frank answered, and sang again.

“I'll have lots of money before the day’s out,” Smith continued, a note of excitement in his voice.

Frank sang softly. A queer thing to get excited about, money, when the sky was so blue, the water so warm, and there was such a deep satisfaction just in lying on the white beach and humming a song.

“In your coat, you say?” Smith persisted.

Frank nodded. “Go and get it. The locker door’s open.”

Smith went at once. When he returned he held a dollar bill in one hand, and in the other a small canvas.

“I’m taking that picture I left with you, Frank,” he explained. “Something tells me there’s a market for my work at last.” He stared at the painting critically. A dark-skinned, black-eyed girl stood against a background of cool green. She held a crimson flower between her lips, and she had the look of the tropics, of lazy islands lost in southern seas. “You know,” the beach-comber added with almost reluctant admiration, “that’s not half bad.”

“Yeah,” said Frank.

“Not bad at all,” Smith continued. “But then, they told me I had talent, Frank. I heard it in New York—and in Paris too. Talent—maybe a touch of genius—but not much else. No backbone—no character—nothing to back it up. You’ve got to have character, my boy.”

​“Yeah,” repeated Frank idly.

“You know, Frank, painters without half my skill—oh, hell, what’s the use? Why should I complain? Look at Corot, Frank. Not one of his pictures was sold during his lifetime. Look at Manet. You know what the critics did to Manet? They laughed at him.”

“Yeah,” continued Frank. He threw down his guitar, leaped to his feet and, running across the sand, dove like a fish into two feet of water. Smith looked after him. He shook his head.

“No interest in painting,” he muttered. “Just music. Well, that’s something.” He put the bill in his pocket, tucked the canvas under his arm, and went out to the street.

A trolley was approaching, bound for the city, and Smith swung aboard. He offered the dollar proudly—after this, perhaps, the conductor would not judge every one by his clothes. Once or twice, on the way into town, he looked again at his painting. His opinion of it grew even better.

At a lunch room in town he treated himself to a breakfast such as he had not known in several days, then moved on to the Waioli Hotel. His entrance there evoked no great enthusiasm. The clerk stared at him with open disapproval. “What do you want?” he inquired coldly.

“Mr. Fyfe stopping here?” the beach-comber asked.

“He is—but he sleeps late. I can’t disturb him.”

“You'd better disturb him.” There was a sudden note of authority in Smith’s voice. “I’ve an appointment—very important. Mr. Fyfe wants to see me more than I want to see him.”

​The clerk hesitated, and then took up a telephone. In a moment he turned to the beach-comber. “Be down right away,” he announced.

Boldly Smith dropped into a chair and waited. Fyfe appeared almost at once; evidently he had not slept late to-day. There was a worried look in his eyes. He came over to the beach-comber. “You wanted to see me?” he said. “I’m on my way to the theater. Come along.”

He left his key at the desk and strode toward the door, Smith struggling to keep up with him. They walked in silence. Finally the actor turned.

“Why be so indiscreet?” he inquired. “You could have telephoned me and I’d have met you.”

Smith shrugged. “Telephoning costs money,” he replied. “And I haven’t much money—yet.”

There was a world of meaning in that last word. Fyfe led the way from the more modern quarter of the city into the Oriental district. They moved on past shops crammed with silks, linens, embroideries, jade and porcelains. Bales and baskets filled with the food-stuffs of the Orient encroached upon the sidewalk.

“I take it you expect to have money soon?” Fyfe said at last.

Smith smiled. “Why not? Last night I did you a favor. Oh—I’m nobody’s fool. I know why you made that fake confession. You were afraid I was going to repeat what I heard when I was standing outside that window. Weren’t you?”

“Just what did you overhear?”

“Enough, believe me. I heard that woman—the woman somebody killed later on—I heard her tell you that she——”

​“Never mind!” The actor looked nervously about. Nothing but flat expressionless faces, dark eyes that avoided his.

“I think I fell in with your plan very neatly,” Smith reminded him. “When that Chinese detective, after he’d punctured your confession, asked me again what I’d heard—well, I said what you wanted me to, didn’t I? I backed up what you'd been saying. I could have exploded a bomb right then and there—but I didn’t. Please remember that.”

“I do remember it. And I rather expected you’d be around this morning to blackmail me——”

“My dear sir”—Smith raised a thin freckled hand—“you might have spared me that. I have some shreds of respectability left, and—er—what you said is scarcely in my line. It just occurred to me that as an intelligent man, a practitioner of one of the allied arts, you might possibly be interested in my work.” He indicated the canvas. “I happen to have a sample with me,” he added brightly.

Fyfe laughed. “You're a rather subtle person, Mr. Smith. Suppose I did buy one of your paintings—what would you do with the money?”

Smith licked his lips. “I’d get out of this place for ever. I’m fed up here. For the past year I’ve been thinking about going home—to my folks in Cleveland. I don’t know whether they’d be glad to see me—if I had decent clothes and a bit of money in my pocket—that might help.”

“How did you get here in the first place?” the actor inquired.

“I went down to the South Seas to paint. Might be a good place for some people—but for me—well, the ​first thing I knew I was on the beach. After a long time, my people sent me money to come home. I managed to get aboard a boat, but unfortunately it stopped for a day at this port. And—have you tried any of the okolehau they call a drink in this paradise?”

Fyfe smiled. “I understand. You forgot to go back to your ship.”

“My dear sir,” Smith shrugged, “I forgot the world. When I woke up, my boat was two days out. Oddly enough, my father seemed annoyed. A rather impatient man.”

They reached the river and, crossing a narrow stone bridge, entered Aala Park where, because of its convenient location, the dregs of the town congregate. Fyfe indicated a bench. They sat down together, and Smith handed over his canvas.

The actor glanced at it, and a look of surprise crossed his face. “By jove,” he cried, “that’s damned good.”

“Glad to hear you say so,” beamed Smith. “A bit unexpected, too, eh? I’m not what you'd call a born salesman, but I can’t help pointing out that the thing might be valuable some day. There’s just a chance. Think of the pride you could take in saying to your friends: ‘Ah, yes—but I recognized his talent long ago. I was his first patron.’”

“Is this your real name—down here in the corner?”

The beach-comber hung his head. “My real name—yes,” he replied.

Fyfe laid the canvas on his knee. “Just—what is the price?” he inquired.

“What am I offered?” Smith countered.

“If you're really sincere about wanting to go ​home,” said the actor, “I’ll be happy to arrange it for you. Not now, of course—the police wouldn’t let you go at present. But when this has blown over a bit, I'll buy you a ticket—and give you something besides. In return for this canvas, you know.”

“How much besides?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Well, I don’t know——”

“Make it two fifty. Look here, you’re not dealing with a millionaire. I’m an actor on a salary, and it’s none too big. I’ve had a long engagement in Honolulu, and I’ve saved a bit. I’m offering you about all I’ve got. If it’s not enough, I’m sorry.”

“It’s enough,” said the beach-comber slowly. “I don’t mean to be hard on you. I’m not very proud of this, you know. But it’s my chance—my chance to get away—lord, I’ve got to take it. We'll call it a bargain—a ticket to the mainland as soon as they’ll let me go, and two fifty in my jeans. But say—how about meantime—I need a small advance now.”

“For okolehau, eh?”

Smith hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said frankly. “I hope not. I don’t want to touch it. I might talk, and spoil everything. I’m not thinking so much of you—spoil everything for myself, I mean.” He stood up. “I won't touch it,” he cried suddenly. “I’ll fight, and I'll win. I give you my word of honor as a gentleman.”

Fyfe looked him over, wondering what that was worth. He took out his wallet.

“I'll have to trust you, I suppose. I'll give you fifty now.” Smith’s eyes gleamed. “It’s all I’ve got on me. Wait a minute!” He pushed away the beach​comber’s eager hand. “Remember—you must be careful. If the police find that you’ve suddenly got money, they’re bound to look into it.”

“I was thinking of some new clothes,” returned Smith wistfully.

“Not now,” Fyfe warned. “Before you sail, yes—we'll attend to that. But now—just as you are for a while—and lie low.” The actor was standing too, and he stared hard into the other’s face. “I’m depending on you. A man who can paint as you can—don’t be a fool. Go straight.”

“By heaven, I will!” Smith cried, and hurried off across the park. For a moment Fyfe looked after him, then, with his recent purchase under his arm, walked slowly in the direction of the theater.

Smith went on to Beretania Street, and entered a small low-ceilinged room through a doorway that bore above it the faint sign: “Nippon Hotel.” Behind the narrow desk stood a polite little Japanese. On the wall at his back hung the picture of a great liner cleaving the waves, under the words: “Nippon Yusen Kaisha.”

“Hello, Nada,” Smith said jauntily. “My old room vacant?”

“So sorry,” hissed the Jap.

Smith threw a bill on to the counter. “Here’s ten in advance,” he remarked.

“So sorry you stay away such long time,” hastily amended the clerk. “Room all ready—yes-s.”

“I’ll go and brush up a bit,” Smith told him. “My baggage will be along later.”

“You have money from home, I think,” Nada smiled.

“Money from home, nothing,” Smith responded ​airily. “I’ve sold a picture, Nada. You know, that’s more than Corot ever did.” He leaned across the counter confidentially. “Poor old Corot, Nada, never got on to himself. It’s all in being outside the right window at the right time.”

“Mebbe so,” agreed Nada. “Much better you go along now. Room numba seven, like always.”

“It’s great to be home,” Smith answered, and went out, whistling a merry tune.