The Lower Deep Read Free

here. Just great!"
    The parting handclasp echoed the vigor of the voice. Those fingers, Steve thought, could probably break rocks without a hammer.
    Mendoza opened the door. A middle-aged black man in black trousers and a white shirt stood there, seemingly about to knock.
    "Yes?" Steve said.
    Did he know the man? Something about him—"Our cook," Mendoza volunteered.
    "Oh?" Here was a chance, Steve decided, to find out how rusty his St. Joe Creole was. "Comment yo rélé ou, compère?"
    "Ti-Jean Lazaire, m'sié."
    I don't know the name, Steve thought, but I do know the face. "Have we met before?" Again he used the peasant tongue.
    Was there a slight hesitation? He could not be sure. It might have been because his Creole was not too good. Yet the reply indicated understanding. "I—do not believe so, m'sié."
    "We'd better talk English. You speak it, of course?" To work in a place like this the man would have to, wouldn't he?
    "Yes, Doctor."
    "You're certain we haven't met before?"
    "I would remember if we had."
    "Well, all right. What can I do for you?"
    "I came to ask if there is something special you would like for dinner to celebrate your arrival. Some St. Joseph dish, perhaps, that you enjoyed when you were in my country before."
    "When I was at the hospital in Fond des Pintards, you mean."
    "Yes."
    "Have you been there? Is that where we might have met?"
    This time there was a hesitation; Steve was sure of it. But Lazaire shook his head. "No, Doctor. I don't know that part of the island."
    "How did you know I worked there, then?"
    "Dr. Driscoll mentioned it when he told me you were coming."
    "I see." I don't see. And I don't think I wholly believe you, friend, though I can't imagine why the hell you might be lying. "Well, all right. To answer your question, there are several St. Joe dishes I'm really fond of, but not this evening, thanks. I appreciate your coming to ask me, though."
    "You are welcome to visit my kitchen at any time, Doctor."
    "Thanks. I'll be doing that, of course."
    "Au revoir, m'sié. Mange bien."
    The fellow departed.
    "You know, Steve," Juan Mendoza said, "I could live here a lifetime and never learn to handle their Creole the way you do."
    "I didn't handle it too well with Lazaire, I'm afraid. I've forgotten a lot."
    "What did he mean by 'Mange bien'?"
    "'Eat well.'"
    "What kind of remark is that?"
    Steve wondered, too, but shrugged. "After all, he's the cook, isn't he? Wait a minute, Juan." By holding up a hand, he stopped Mendoza's progress to the door. "Don't be in such a hurry, please. I need to know what's going on here. And I don't-mean the usual things that happen in a place of this sort."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Why did Tom Driscoll send for me?"
    "He's had a stroke, Steve. Maybe only a light one, but he's had one, though he won't admit it."
    "Good God. Are you sure?"
    "Well, no, we can't be sure, but we think so. He was taking hydrochlorothiazide to bring down his blood pressure, and it may have upped his cholesterol. And he's tired. Bone tired. Feeling every day of his age."
    "He isn't scared half to death about something, too?"
    "Maybe." Mendoza shrugged as he turned to the door again. "But sometimes this place is enough to give all of us the creeps. I think if I were Driscoll I . . . well, skip it. I should mind my own business."
    The door closed on his "Good night, old buddy" before Steve could question him further.

    Had the manager said dinner was at seven? Steve looked for a meal schedule in the briefing folder Henninger had left in his dresser drawer, and was glad to know his memory was still working properly. He had begun to think the Azagon's creepy atmosphere was getting to him.
    His watch said 6:55. Hungry enough to eat anything the cook might offer, he went downstairs.
    As he paused to get his bearings in the doorway of what had once been an elegant hotel dining room, a quiet voice behind him said, "Hi, there, Steve Spence," and he felt a hand on his arm.
    He had not heard that