The chief lived in a neat frame house at the end of the village. He was a broad-shouldered, gray-haired man in immaculate shorts, wearing a T-shirt that read: “Whup ’em, Brudah.” He had an aristocratic nose and brown kindly eyes. He was a man of immense dignity and grace: he produced his slender, pretty Chinese wife and a slim son of fifteen and pulled seats from the table for Mitch and Lindy while he sat on a bed.

His English was as primitive as Mitch’s French, so they split the difference and conversed in a kind of pidgin. The chief had not visited the boat, he said, because it seemed already too crowded. Then, there was the press of administrative work for Papeete—he waved his hand at the kitchen table piled high with dusty papers. He had been standing last week on the end of the dock while the boat entered the pass, and had radioed Papeete of their arrival, and was all well? Ca va bien?

Mitch groped for the words to tell him but the old diver broke in in angry Tuamotuan. No one had mentioned Louie at all, but Mitch heard his name now. The chief nodded, glanced briefly at his son, and sent him on some errand. Then he faced Mitch.

The theft was unfortunate, he said. But one must realize that Louie, like himself, was not precisely of the island. He himself was from Takapoto, almost thirty miles away, assigned here by Papeete, perhaps unwisely, because he was neither Catholic nor Mormon, but a Witness of Jehovah. He had been here only three years, and Takarava was not Takapoto, so he did not really understand the people here. On the other hand, while they were not Jehovah’s Witnesses, they were honest folk and could not have stolen the camera. Louie, though he had never left the island, was a child apart.

Louie, apparently convicted in absentia, obviously needed a lawyer. Lindy flushed and mentioned this, but luckily the chief did not follow her. He was watching his wife as she served them coffee. It was strong and bitter, but they drank it slowly and with a great show of relish. No one offered any to the old diver, so he stumbled over and took his own.

Louie, the chief continued, was apparently the son of a young crewman on an island schooner from Bora Bora, a half-Polynesian half-black, whose own father had been, reputedly, a wounded GI sent to recuperate in the Bora Bora rest camp during la guerre. Louie had never seen him, although he would tell you, mon capitaine, that he had visited Bora Bora many times.