A Doctor’s Digression

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 543, 21 December 1928, Page 8 (Supplement)

A Doctor’s Digression

By

«. i HE steamer from Noumea brought him to Namena, (Rfilffßv'(*TrV Where he was thrown ashore —a frowsy-enough person to warrant unceremonious ejection. But as he had bestowed upon the burly steward who frog-marched genealogical tree of amazing ramifications, there was laughter in the gTey eyes, and devil-may-care in the rakish set of the much-soiled Panama that only partly concealed a massive brow. Then he turned to make a leisurely contemptuous survey of the crowd assembled to greet the incoming boat. It was close upon midnight, but the occasion was of sufficient importance to attract almost the whole white population, and huddled at the shore-end of the wharf were natives of nearly every Pacific breed. The waters of the bay were flecked with the i iding-lights of many schooners and cutters. Out od the reef surf foamed in coral sea-caves. Stars, a crooning trade-wind, and the Pacific foaming through the narrow portal of the bay —a tropic night, with all its mystery and tragedy, and hopes and fears, and sorrow and gladness. The derelict from the steamer was affected not at all by such abstractions. His immediate needs were food and drink. Of the two essentials, food could wait. Drink he must have. And so his questing eyes roved the nondescript whites and half-castes on the fringe of the crowd. The instinct of a profession trained to study human emotions fixed his gaze on a man standing apart from the rest and smoking a cigar of tantalising aroma.

Contact was made by a request for a match, and the production of a silver case containing a solitary cigarette. Then followed the information that the new arrival was Logan—Dr. Logan—temporarily stranded after a most unsatisfactory locum tenens appointment in New Caledonia, and desperately in need of a pick-me-up. The stranger listened courteously, and commented that It was hard luck to be at a loose end In any part of the Pacific. His name was Fuller. He could put the visitor up for a few days, and perhaps something would turn up. Fuller spoke a few words to a Samoan woman standing near, and the three made their way through the crowd. Crossing the road at the head of the wharf, they gained a narrow track that zig-zagged up the hillside. It was stiff going for the newcomer, whose perambulations for many years had never taken him beyond the flat pavements of city streets; but finally they emerged on to a flat terrace containing a neat bungalow. Fuller led his guest to a lounge chair on the wide verandah and ordered the woman to bring drinks. A dash of absinthe and a man's-size “chaser” of brandy, neat, brought < olour to the doctor’s face and animation to his manner. He displayed epicurean appreciation of the food the woman placed before him. Then, stretching luxuriously in his chair, he turned a humorous face to his host. “Have you read O. Henry?” he said. Fuller waved toward a small bookcase at the end of the verandah. “All his works are there —and they’re wellthumbed.”

“Then you will remember the case of Sherard Plumer, and his uncanny gift of transmitting to canvas the soul of his sitter. It proved his ruin. A similar ‘gift’ (my friends had another name for it) in diagnosis, «a<! an absurd conviction that a patient is entitled to hear facts, has brought me to the state in which you now see me. At one time I was a ‘fashionable’ practitioner in London, with perhaps a hundred titled men and women on my visiting list. But, like Plumer, I developed the habit of telling my patients the truth about their ailments —real or fancied. I began to loose caste, and patients drifted to other practitioners. I migrated to Sydney, where I found that ‘fashionable’ complaints were as popular and as prevalent as in London. I did well for a few months, but couldn't keep my patients, and for five years I have been on the downward grade. The visit to New Caledonia finished me. I stowed away on that steamer, where I have been through hell under that greasy spawn of a steward who flung me ashore to-night. And now, do you think the tropics will complete my descent to Avernus? For to-night you are the Caliph of Bagdad; but to-morrow —what of it?” “There are possibilities,” replied Fuller, who had listened quietly to the other’s revelations, "not o! complete rehabilitation, for you seem to have burned your boats completely, but of an occupation in which insistence of a spade being a spade might be neither desirable nor profitable. I suggest we sleep on the problem. If your fall has been as hard as you say, your bounce may be so much higher.” A bath and a suit of spotless duck effected a transformation in Fuller’s guest, and after breakfast, the following morning. Fuller proposed that the doctor should join him in a venture that showed considerable profits, with commensurate risks.

“I am taking it for granted,” he said, “that you are whiling to take the chance of a brush w ith the law". The risk may not be great, but it is there.”

“That’s all right,” said Logan. “It's all included in the fall, and I’m inclined to go to any lengths to get even with society. But I warn you I’ve no criminal streak in me. When I’m sober I’m reckless, and that’s when I seek solace in old Mother Booze. You’ll have to be the doctor and diagnose for such a departure from the orthodox.”

"We’ll leave it at that,” answered Fuller. “I’m giving you a chance, but one miss is out. I can’t afford to dry-nurse you, and unless you sign up for the full course, with no interludes, the deal is off.”

“The full course, then, O Caliph,” was the reply, “and I'll be my own man as long as the game lasts. I've a queer hunch that this is to be the end. but I’ll play the hand right out.” They shook hands and Fuller outlined his business, which was the receipt of opium from abroad and its distribution in Australia and New Zealand. He was a buyer of coconuts and copra.

T. D. TAYLOR

on behalf of a firm of Chinese merchants, with headquarters in Sydney and a branch in Auckland. For three years he had conducted a legitimate trade in these products, in order to build up a reputation for integrity and prompt payment. Firmly established as a bona fide trader, he had, with the considerable help of his principals, then organised a system of receiving and distributing large parcels of opium. The results in the past 12 months had been most satisfactory, but the business had grown to such proportions that new methods of ensuring complete safety had become necessary. The arrival of a qualified medical man in circumstances that made him a willing—even an eager—catspaw, seemed to offer just the most desirable solution that could possibly have presented itself. It was necessary to have someone privileged to go on board every overseas steamer that came to Namena, and as there was no resident doctor there, it would be a simple matter to have Logan appointed port health officer. The Chinese firm, which had agents in almost every port in the world, had no difficulty in bribing a member of the crew of a vessel bound for Namena to smuggle aboard a quantity of opium. Instructions were sent to Fuller, and his was the job of getting the drug ashore. As there was a Customs officer at Namena, precautions in effecting contact with the agent had to be most elaborate. A code for his identification had been arranged. It would

be the doctor’s duty to find him and ascertain where the drug was secreted. Sometimes it would be on the vessel; at others, dropped overboard and buoyed in the harbour. In the course of the next few months Dr. Logan became a popular resident of the island, and his official appointment as officer of health was approved.

The calm of the tropic mid-day was disturbed by loud cries of “Sail-ho!” From hills and valleys along the coast the natives repeated the call, and long before the papalangi re:>dents could discern a sign of a vessel the natives had left their work and play and gathered in hilarious groups on the waterfront.

Dr. Logan had gone out in a launch to meet the steamer, had inspected the officers and crew, and had given them a clean bill of health with the exception of one of the stokers who had on the previous day developed an internal complaint that had not responded to the usual remedies. The doctor had been told by Fuller that there would be a “sick” man on board and was therefore prepared for the man’s statement that he was suffering from a complaint comprising the code word. The doctor ordered him to be taken ashore for a couple of days. One night he was secretly visited by Fuller, and his financial condition was considerably improved by the information he was able to give. In the blankets which he had insisted on having wrapped round him when he was carried off the vessel, he had secreted £5,000 worth of

opium, and the next steamer for Sydney carried it safely to its destination.

“Simple work,” said Logan, mildly deriding Fuller’s contention that there was any risk attached to the business. Though rather curious as to the method of disposing of the drug, he refrained from questioning Fuller—partly from an uneasy feeling that it would be better not to be deeply implicated in the smuggling, and partly because of a belief that Fuller would refuse to tell him.

Indeed, the subject was scarcely mentioned for three months, when another foreign vessel was almost due. She proved to be a sailing ship from a German port. The usual advice regarding a consignment of 12 tins of opium had been received by Fuller, and when the doctor boarded the ship he discovered that the agent was the second officer who had dropped the tins overboard, buoyed with cork floats, just inside the reef entrance. When Logan reported to Fuller he remarked, grimly: “You’ll see where the risk comes in now, my friend. This means a night fishing expedition with a gale brewing. The Auckland steamer is due to-morrow, and we must get the floats up before daylight.” In heavy rain squalls, and in a sea that was rapidly being churned into white-topped billows, the pair set out that night to row to the reef, a distance of two miles. The gale was driving the sea in great combers through the entrance; to the bay. The rowers were quickly drenched by rain and spray, and constant baling was necessary to prevent the boat swamping. After an hour’s pulling they were exhausted, but they had reached the spot where the buoys were presumed to be. With an electric torch, carefully shrouded, they located several buoys and recovered five tins. But

by this time Logan had reached the limit of his endurance and collapsed " in the bottom of the boat. Fuller had to abandon further search and turned the boat’s head for the nearest shore. The wind and sea drove the craft along at a tremendous pace, and she soon beached in a sheltered bay. Fuller hauled Logan ashore and poured between his lips a stiff brandy. In the early hours of the morning the pair reached home Leaning over the rail of the Turua. as she entered the harbour of Namena next day, was a middle-aged man. Bulky he was, and because of the tropic heat he wore neither coat nor waistcoat. He looked utterly bored: a retired publican, perhaps; or a politician seeking respite after an arduous session. He was, however, neither. That he was observant and of an alertly deductive habit was proved by a sudden animated movement and rapid adjustment of his binoculars. Then he muttered exclamations: H’m— who’d have thought it, in a dog’s hole like this?” The passenger on the Turua was roused to further speculation when he saw the medical officer climbing the gangway. “Long-beer Logan,’’ he whispered. “Well, well, we have to leave home to hear the news about the old home. He seems to have spruced up a bit but you never can tell with these brainy chaps.” With this cryptic thought he lined up with the steamer’s officers, and showed never a sign of recognition as he went through the usual formalities.

The captain of the Turua readily gave permission for the_passenger to “take a run round the harbour” in the steamer’s small towing launch, and after dinner that night he set out, alone. He was an expert in a launch, and with the engine slowed down he cruised along the shore till he reached the reef about 200 yards from the entrance. It was a velvety night, a tropic aftermath of the previous evening’s storm. The breakers crooned along the reef, and its lee side was radiant with phosphorescent illumination.

With engine cut off, the launch drifted lazily with the swell, the passenger using a boat-hook to keep her away from the reef. An hour passed, and the watcher in the launch stirred at sounds that cut across the ripple of the waves—the soft creak of oars in quiet water, and the low murmur of voices.

“Two or more,” he said to himself; “I’ll let them catch their fish themselves.” Y r ery quietly he edged the launch along the reef well beyond reach of the torch that now was flashing here and there across the harbour. Then the engine was started and the launch headed for the steamer. Hastily climbing aboard, the passenger had a brief chat with the captain, and twenty minutes later the launch, equipped with a small searchlight, and carrying in addition the steamer’s first and second officers, was again on her way down the bay. A mile out, the engine was cut off, and the party, silently waiting, listened tensely. Soon the silence was broken by the sound of oars quickly dipped. The oncoming boat was about

fifty yards away when the engine was restarted. The searchlight flared across the water, and found its mark.

There was a cry of alarm, and Fuller made a scrambling effort to throw overboard a number tins. But ropes attached to them had become “snarled” round the seats. “Well, better sooner than later,” said Logan to Fuller. “I’d like a less tame finish, though.” “Don’t make a fuss, or you won’t see the sun rise!” said the stranger, at the same time poking an automatic into the lamp’s glare.

Instantly there was a spurt of flame from Fuller’s gun. A cry from the second officer told the stranger that the bullet had taken effect. He returned fire. The swaying of the small boat brought Logan into line. He lurched heavily, clutched the side of the boat, and slid overboard, straight to the depths, the boat capsizing with the inrush of water as the gunwale went under. Fuller, who had lost his gun, was dragged aboard the launch and handcuffed. The second officer had been shot through the arm, but declared that the adventure was worth more than a “busted fin.”

Fuller’s trial in Sydney created extraordinary interest. No amount of cross-examination, threats, or promises of lenient treatment succeeded in extracting from him his method of shipping the drug to his principals. “Five years’ imprisonment,” said the judge. But that punishment, with the certainty of adequate recompense for silence, was infinitely preferable to a shorter sentence, with the equal certainty of sudden death if he “squealed.”

The secret was divulged quite unexpectedly. Some days after Fuller’s trial a detective on duty at the city fruit market was shown a coconut which was found to contain a dozen small steel tubes, hermetically sealed, filled with a greyish powder. He took the tubes to headquarters, where experts declared them to be filled with first-quality opium. The clue was worth following up, and a detective sent to Namena as the most likely place to solve the problem. A half-witted Fijian boy admitted that under “Missi” Fuller’s instructions he used to fill the “small fella bottels” with “dirt,” place them in coconuts, previously scooped out with a small steel rake, and then plug the hole with a grey wax. Only two nuts were placed in each bag, and the ones containing the drug were identifiable by an incision under the husk. The nut discovered at the fruit market was in a bag that had been wrongly delivered by a carrier, with the result that Fuller’s employees were soon placed in the same predicament as himself.

“Which shows,” declared Detective-Inspector Inverarty, the Turua’s passenger, /‘that there’s always a flaw in man-made schemes to beat the law. It was the devil’s own bad luck for Fuller's gang that I decided to get away from the hunt for a few days, and hopped aboard the Turua. And if I hadn’t gone on deck at that precise minute I wouldn’t have seen those corks bobbing about in the sun.”

One-Eyed House ( Continued) poster and only approachable by a detachable la,dder through the trap door. He had not been up. nor knew of its existence till this moment. Yet so sure was he of the geography of the place that, rising without a trace of habitual hesitance, he went up into the squat tower. No ladder had been left, but searching below in the kitchen he found one, and hoisting the heavy thing upstairs with inspired strength, climbed into the attic. The low-ceiled room looked as he knew it would look; it was almost entirely filled by the enormous four-poster and two solid chairs. Peering through the window with an air of possession, he saw, far away, a company of armed riders, approaching down the w'hite road from the west. . . . And nearer at hand a single rider from the north. They moved apparently forward but came no nearer, and were utterly noiseless. The little man stumbled down the ladder, and

A Restless Night ( Continued ) the caravan over a long-forgotten burial chamber. Its weight had caused it to break through the surface and fall into the vault. My companions lit a candle. With the aid of this I saw remnants of coffins and their contents around me, the caravan having broken the coffins in its downward plunge. The thunder and lightning, which had not ceased, gave the scene an eerie, ntinature Judgment Day effect. It was impossible to hoist the caravan out of the vault without assistance as it was engulfed so deeply that only a little could be seen above the surface of the ground. However, as our beds were more or less level, the most sensible thing to do was to get into them. And after my header into that water never was bed more acceptable to me. Some Quaint Xmas Superstitions pOULD one, at this season, assume the craft of a Paul Pry, who knows that there might be espied, in suburban kitchendom, many a maid mixing the simple ingredients of her “dumb” cake —flour, salt and water —and making a surely appetising compound! For, maybe even the matter-of-fact modern Miss gives some regard to old-time superstition, and seeks, by faithfully following old-time injunctions, to have revealed to her a mental vision of her husband-to-be. If, we are told, a girl, on the third night after Christmas, abstains throughout the evening from eating, drinking, and speaking, and when in bed eats what is known as a “dumb” cake, she assuredly will dream of the man destined to share her future joys and sorrows. Certainly the consumption of such a cake is deserving of the promised good reward! If another queer belief, handed down to us from far distant days, finds a liberal following of fair ones, who come to put its canons into practice, the eggs of black hens must speedily be at a premium. According to this superstition: “If a young girl, just before retiring on Christmas Eve, eats the egg of a black hen after the egg has been hardboiled and the yolk removed, the cavity being filled with salt, she will enjoy dreams of her future lover.” • According to a belief, apparently moth-eaten with age, the girl who forbears from eating prunes on Christmas Day may see reflected in her washing-basin at seven successive midnights immediately following Christmas Day the face of the man who will lead her to the altar, while another legacy of antiquity asserts that a farthing placed an hour before midnight, on Christmas Eve, in a shallow glass of wassail wine, will, on the first stroke of twelve o'clock, come to resemble the face of the fair gazer's future husband, retaining the likeness as long as the chiming of the nearest church clock continues.

it was no more there behind him: he reached the front room, where the lanthorn still lured victims. Sinking into the chair, half-numbed with queer sensations, he fell into an uneasy slumber. He dreamed he had sold the place for many thousands, and the furniture for yet more. . . Just when all was settled, a hand gripped his shoulder a woman’s hand, and bade him revoke the agreement. To the amazement of his client, he refused to affix his final signatures, compelled by some unknown force. Furiously and fretfully he cursed this uncanny feeling, till, waking with a startled cry, he watched the snib of the door lifting. . . . Outside, the midnight noises to which he was accustomed, swelled to their usual value. From where he sat, he could see through one of the window panes shops and offices, no longer the white-ditched roads of an hour ago. The door opened wide, framing a woman. Tall sh< was and full-bosomed, with dark hair parted across the brow, and clear, fine skin. She had the mild eyes of a cow, but a rich mouth firmlv set, and a sure chin. y She gazed placidly on the occupant of her room, who had risen apologetically to greet her Suddenly he seemed to see phantom children in the dark beyond the candle light—long-limbed jhildren with hair of tawny gold. . . ' “You are mine,” she said.