Free Black Is the Fashion for Dying by Jonathan Latimer Page B

Phelps’ tent. Lisa, alone now in Camera A, was eyeing the Webley. As the litter bearers followed Graves into the tent, Gordon jumped from the platform and crossed between Lisa and Camera A, to a position behind Camera C. Blake started to shout to him that he was spoiling the scene, and then realized it didn’t make any difference. The necessaiy footage of Lisa by the pistol had been taken. What a rat race! He went around the monitors and followed Gordon’s path to Camera C.
    In the tent Graves was telling the bearers to put the litter on the cot. Caresse’s face, a camellia pinned to the top of the dingy brown blanket covering her, was twisted into a sort of derisive grimace, even in her pretended unconsciousness managing to convey Barbara Phelps’ feeling of evil triumph.
    â€œ Gently! ” Graves warned the bearers. “ She’s a woman … not a sack of rice! ”
    The bearers moved back from the cot and Graves bent over Caresse, began to pull back the blanket. At the same time Lisa’s voice cried: “ Woman! ”
    Graves turned, and so did Blake and Gordon and the other people back of the camera. Lisa was running towards the tent entrance, the Webley clutched in her hands, her face wild.
    â€œ A devil, perhaps —” she cried. “ But not a woman! ” and as Graves lunged for her she darted past him and fired twice, point-blank, at the hated foreign creature on the litter. Then Graves grappled with her.
    Blake felt his spine tingle icily. It was quite a scene. Lisa really looked murderous. As though she actually meant it. Camera C, pulling back slowly as the struggling pair emerged from the tent, forced him back, too. He was watching them wrestle by the campfire and at the same time trying to find a vantage point clear of the camera when the “ Halloo there! ” came from the hunting party. Lisa stopped struggling, and the pistol, torn from her hands, fell beside the fire.
    The hunters marched wearily out of the jungle, Phil Alton and Trabert shoulder to shoulder, their khaki shirts and trousers grass-stained, their heavy boots caked with mud. Back of them was the dead tiger, head and tail swinging below the pole to which its feet were tied, and back of the tiger were the rifle bearers and guides. Camera C, panning, almost caught Blake again and while he was evading it he missed seeing Lisa run to Phil Alton, heard only over his shoulder her “ Ah, Masterson … you didn’t … you didn’t! ”
    When he finally turned, Ahri was clutching Alton and Graves was limping towards them. Alton caught Lisa’s shoulders, held her away from him. “ Now, now, Ahri. What’s all this about? ”
    â€œ Murder, I’m afraid, ” Graves said.
    Just the right inflection, Blake thought, as though Graves were announcing tea. At least Gordon understood the value of underplaying a scene. He looked for Gordon, saw he was back on the monitor’s platform. He looked at the tent. Caresse would be sitting up now, calling: “Masterson! Come here, please!”
    Camera A was in place, but there was no movement in the tent. After a moment, Gordon left the platform, crossed past the campfire to the tent entrance. “Okay, Caresse,” he said. “You win.” He paused a second, then added: “I was a naughty boy. I lost my temper. I apologize.”
    He went into the tent, bent over the cot and spoke to Caresse in a low voice. Then he came out again, his face expressionless.
    â€œCut!” he said. “And thank you!”
    Bewildered, the three cameramen switched off their cameras. But no one else moved. The set remained silent. Gordon looked across to the platform, squinting against the lights. “Herbier?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWe’ve got a problem with Miss Garnet. Call Fabro.”
    â€œYes. sir.”
    â€œAnd while you’re on the phone—call an undertaker.”

T. J. Lorrance
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