Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

the truck slowed down too much its engine stalled. Adèle took the lead. She was alone and walking quite normally. She looked about and sometimes turned around, like someone in charge.
    Finally they reached the cemetery. It was at the top of a hill overlooking the sea and the town. To the left a river flowed out of the jungle. A red-and-black cargo ship was taking on a load of lumber.
    Was it because of the purity of the air? In spite of the distance, you could make out the smallest details: some rafts being towed by a very small tugboat with a chugging diesel engine; the clanking chains with which they were securing the stacks of lumber; the creaking cranes.
    Farther out was the ocean—ocean and nothing but ocean, three whole weeks of it going full steam ahead before you saw the coast of France!
    Was this really a cemetery? There’d been an attempt to respect European tradition. There were two or three stone tombs, a couple of wooden crosses. Even so, it was hardly what you would have expected: no chapel, no enclosing wall, no gate; just a hedge of outlandish shrubbery with monstrous red berries that only underscored how far away Europe was. And the earth was red. Right in the open, at a distance of a hundred yards, you could make out a row of rectangular unmarked mounds—the native graveyard. And in the middle of it, a gigantic baobab tree.
    People who hadn’t joined in the procession had driven over and were waiting, smoking cigarettes. Among them were the governor and the territorial administrator. They bowed to Adèle.
    It had to be done quickly because there was no shade. You could hear the cargo being loaded throughout the ceremony. The pastor was uncomfortable.
    In his life, Eugène Renaud had been a Catholic as much as he was anything. But the local curate had left on a tour of the interior several days earlier, and the Anglican pastor had agreed to officiate in his place.
    Four blacks slid the coffin into the too-shallow hole. They used hoes to rake the dirt over it.
    The idea that one day he might also be interred like this made Timar unbearably conscious of his life since La Rochelle. This wasn’t a cemetery! This wasn’t a burial! He wasn’t at home!
    He was sleepy. His stomach ached. He was afraid of the heat that filtered under his helmet and burned his neck like a branding iron.
    Everybody headed back to the town. He tried to walk apart, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure beside him, the tall figure of Maritain, who mumbled nervously, “Did you sleep well? By the way, have you received a summons, too? It seems that the governor wants to take part in the questioning.”
    Timar vaguely recognized the market and made out the lane the police station was on. His shirt was sticking to his armpits. He was thirsty.
    There was no waiting room; they’d made do by setting a couple of chairs out under the veranda. But the glare was so harsh that you couldn’t take off your helmet.
    The black helpers sat on the wooden steps. The office door remained open and they’d seen the governor and the prosecutor going in. The typewriter clattered away in another office. When it stopped, bits and pieces of conversation came through.
    Adèle was the first person they called in. The loggers glanced at one another, especially when they heard the governor’s politely deferential voice.
    â€œâ€¦ unfortunate circumstances … if you’ll excuse us … need to clear things up quickly … painful business …”
    It lasted barely five minutes. Chairs were pushed back. Adèle came out, not in the least flustered, made her way down the steps, and headed for the hotel. From inside, the police chief cried out, “Next!”
    Bouilloux went in, after making a face at his companions. The typewriter clattered. Nothing could be heard. The logger came out. He gave a shrug.
    â€œNext!”
    Timar, the last in line, hesitated to ask a black for a