Therefore, even if he, John Lutwidge Limekiller, was safely out of gaol for the night, such safety could hardly be expected to continue for very long. Maybe they couldn’t prove that he had the gold illegally (though maybe they could). And if not, maybe they couldn’t get him for not having registered it. Or maybe the question of, had he been poaching turtle eggs w-ouldn’t be raised (would Ruddy Goforth.? not without incriminating himself for Abetting, he wouldn’t).
Back and forth his mind raced, with many and many a But, a So, an And all night long. And all the early morning. because in British Hidalgo, “eight of the morning” was absolutely not early!
— and as, for that matter, who were The Individuals who had boarded the Saccharissa and attempted to rob her — Limekiller had no idea. The Colony. which, being irrevocably on its way to independence. would not be a Colony for much longer. had been for long out of the way of the world: but the world, with its internal combustion engines, its radios, its vices, and its crimes, was inexorably creeping in. Jack did not wish to think that the robbers were Nationals (the phrase was replacing the old, bad word Colonials), but it seemed unlikely that foreigners would have come up from Republican waters in a cayuco — but it really didn’t matter. just as it really didn’t matter that if he had been content to, in the delicate Hidalgo phrase, “ease himself’ near to the boat instead of seeking the privacy of the bush on his way to town then he might have spied the intruders and scared them off.
Once again, as so often, he passed the Parsonage, passed the Parson’s Paddock, passed the Anglican Church, and came to the Government Building.
This time Wee-Wee (he was named after the wee-wee ant, which, with its voracious appetite, counterfeits the leaf-eating wee- wee disease) was not on the steps. But that didn’t really matter, either.
The District Commissioner wasted neither time nor words. “Now, Mr. Limekiller, what about this gold?”
J.L. recalled yet again Ruddy Goforth’s Principle: ‘“Stout denial,’ Regardless and whatever: ‘stout. denial.”' For. after all. what alternative? Even if he didn’t get charged with this offense or that offense there was the very good (or very bad) chance of being ordered to leave the country and not come back. And he had, really, grown to love the little land, smaller than Newfoundland, British Hidalgo, the “country that you can put your arms around,” even if it was also “the end of the line.” Being there, even with its bugs and spooks, was and had for quite a time been better than being in Toronto in the snow-and even if it rained just as much as it rained in Vancouver, well the rain was warmer. And also. well. never mind.
“What gold?” he asked.
The D.C. looked a moment at him. Then he swiveled his chair around and worked at the dial of the old safe. The official papers laced with their red tape were where they had been. Nothing much else was there. The D.C. scraped his hands along the bottom. Some grains of sand. Some crumbles of dirt. The bad old shirt. Nothing else. Nothing else. The D.C. turned around. His mouth worked. Then he said, “Mr. Limekiller. Where is that gold?”
Jack felt his lips crack. But all he said was, staunchly, “What gold?”
Another silence. Then, moved by the devil, Limekiller said, “District Commissioner, I will thank you for that shirt — “
The District Commissioner took out the shirt, shook it, handed it over. Then he made an emphatic gesture, Limekiller left. He sneaked a look at Police Constable Lucas, but Police Constable Lucas, carefully looking at the wall, did not sneak back. The D.C. was, suddenly, shouting, “I shall call in the C.I.D.! I shall have the safe dusted for fingerprints! I shall discharge every police constable on duty lahst night! I shall take it up to the Colonial Privy Council! I shall take it up to the Law Lords in London! I —” The door closed on him and on what else he should do. Only, of course, he wouldn’t. For —
No evidence?
No case!
Because —
British Justice!
The outside world had begun to bring in its rot and corruption. But it had only begun.
Outside. well, not outside the District Office Building. outside the office of the District Commissioner. Limekiller found himself in the familiar-enough out-district police room. These rooms served for many purposes which were not always involved with crime, and, while not always the same, were always similar. This one had of course been whitewashed-but not very recently. It was immaculate. As always. On the wall (invariably), two framed photographs: Her Majesty the Oueen, who theoretically owned British Hidalgo and might, theoretically, sell it all to a real estate syndicate — but probablv wouldn’t; that was one of the photographs. The other, just a mite smaller, was of the Honourable Llewellyn Gonzaga MacBride, the Queen’s First Minister in British Hidalgo. She was in full regalia. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck, no tie. They both wore smiles.
Overhead the slow fan.
At the dais, no one.
Not now, at any rate.
Behind a table doing extra duty as a desk, a police constable. He and Jack exchanged civil looks.
“Yes, Mr. Limekiller?”
“Am I, well, free to go? Eh?”
The P.C. slightly pursed his lips, slightly raised his eyebrows. It was the studiously non-committal face of a man being asked to guess the value of a sand-sailing-barge. He rose to his feet in a smooth motion. “If you will just make yourself at ease a moment, Mr. Limekiller, I will just go into the. He did not finish the sentence, but its meaning was obvious. The door of the inner office was opened for a moment, a voice (previously muffled) was heard, loud and clear, demanding to know “Why is there no Canadian High Commissioner in this Colony? — do they think that they can come down here and commit all kinds of tricks, just because they are from a Commonwealth country? I — what? what? He is still here? Out, out, OUT — get him out! I shall and the door closed again and the police-constable returned to his desk.
Slightly he shook his head, said, “Jock, you w’only vex de man!” “Only,” in Bay talk, an intensive: during a heat wave, it was “only” hot; during a downpour, it was “only” raining.
Jack said, “Eh?”
The police constable was once again studying the sand-barge. Very politely, though, he indicated the door to the outside world. “Mr. Limekiller,” he said, “you are now at large.”
Limekiller walked down the street. Lirst building in the next block, shaded by a purple-drooping jacaranda tree, was. still. sun-worshippers or not. the Anglican Church, crusted with lichens and moss. Would he go in and give thanks? There was, really, a lot of work he should be doing on his boat before Lelix got back. Whatsoever thy hands find to do, do it with thy might: Best he got back to his boat and think his pious thoughts there. But the way took him past the Parson’s Paddock, where no horse had pastured for many years. And then the way took him past the Parsonage and its late Tropical Gothic verandahs shielding the inner rooms from view. But not from sound. In the Parsonage was, evidently, the Parson’s wife, Mrs. Standish. The climate was, indeed, “not kind” to the spinnet. Perhaps also Mrs. Standish’s singing voice was past its prime. But gallantly she played and sang. He could hear her quite clearly. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, sang Mrs. Standish, which I gaze on so fondly today, were to fleet by tomorrow and fade in my arms, Mrs. Standish sang. The waters of the Bay of Hidalgo slapped languidly along the shore. What had happened during the night? what had happened? — like fairy gifts fading away, sang Mrs. Standish.