Death in Zanzibar

by M. M. Kaye

  She turned to look at him again, and apprehension gave place to that entirely illogical anger. She reached out and pushed the lock of hair over his forehead again. That, thought Dany, will show her!

  The stewardess dispensed tea, and the two Colonial gentlemen in the seat behind woke up and embarked upon a long and dogmatic discussion of the race problems in Kenya. The thin Arab whom Dany had first seen in the hall of the Airlane — or possibly in Market-Lydon? — passed down the aisle, and one of the men behind her lowered his voice and said: ‘See who that was? Salim Abeid — the chap they call “Jembe”.’

  ‘Believe you’re right. Wonder what he’s been doing over in London?’

  ‘Being made much of by our messy little Pro-Reds and Pink Intellectuals, I suppose. Can’t think why we allow that type of chap to go there. They’re never up to any good, and they never get any good — the Reds see to that! Swoop down on ’em like vultures the minute they land, and cherish ’em and fill ’em up with spleen, and educate ’em in subversion.’

  ‘I’ve always heard,’ said the other voice, ‘that he’s an able feller. They say he’s getting quite a following in Zanzibar.’

  ‘So I believe. Which is Zanzibar’s bad luck! That place has always seemed to me a sort of peaceful oasis in a brawling desert of politicians and power-grabbers. But Jembe and his ilk are out to change all that if they can. Ever noticed how for all their bellowings about “Peace and Brotherly Love” the average Red is eaten up from nose to tail with envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness? Their gods and their gospel are hate and destruction, and Jembe is typical of the breed. At the moment his target is the British, because that is a sitting duck these days. But he’s a Coast Arab, and if ever he should manage to get us out he’ll turn his followers on the Indian community next; or the Parsees — and then the Omani Arabs — and so on. There must always be an enemy to kick, so that he can keep hate alive and profit by it. If Zanzibar is a little Eden, then Jembe is the serpent in it! Did I ever tell you…?’

  The speaker lowered his voice again as the subject of his remarks passed again on his way back to his seat, and thereafter made no further mention of Zanzibar or of the man he had referred to as ‘Jembe’.

  The daylight faded, and Dany drew up the blind and found that they were still flying over the sea. She wished that she had something to read. Or someone to talk to. Anything to soothe her jangled nerves and keep her from thinking of Mr Honeywood — and of murder. The couple behind her, having exhausted politics and settled the fate of Kenya, had advanced — loudly — to the unnerving subject of air disasters. A painfully audible anecdote about a settler who, while flying his family in to Nairobi for a week-end, made a forced landing in waterless country where they all died of thirst before help could reach them, was succeeded by another concerning a convivial gentleman called ‘Blotto’ Coots who ‘pancaked’ in the sea off Mombasa and was devoured by sharks, and a third relating to one ‘Toots’ Parbury-Basset who crashed into the crater of an extinct volcano, killing herself, two friends and her African houseboy in the process …

  ‘Must have got caught in a down-draught: or else her engine cut out,’ trumpeted the narrator light-heartedly. ‘We didn’t find ’em till the next day. Nasty mess. Bits all over the shop — no idea who was who. Did you hear about that airliner that broke up over the Mediterranean last Tuesday? Come to think of it, must have been just about where we are now. Forty-eight people on board and____’

  The Arab, Jembe, rose abruptly and hurried down the aisle once more, casting the speaker a look of virulent dislike as he passed. It was obvious that he too had caught part of the conversation, and Dany remembered his recent assertion that he felt ‘always most bad over the sea, for if the engines should fail then, we will all drown: it is terrible!’ He had something there, she thought, peering down at the enormous empty leagues of sea so far below them, and wondering if there were sharks in the Mediterranean. She had it on good authority that there were plenty off the Mombasa coast, and it occurred to her that if the timorous Jembe had been tuned in on the fate of the late ‘Blotto’ Coots, he was likely to feel a lot worse once they left Mombasa on the last lap of their journey.

  If he has any sense, thought Dany, he’ll take a strong sedative! She was not sure that she couldn’t do with one herself.

  A star swam palely into the blue immensity above, to be followed by another and another, until at last it was dark. The chairs were tipped back to facilitate sleep, and the lights were dimmed to no more than a faint blue glow; but it was not a restful night — although judging from the stentorian snores, a few people found it so.

  In the yellow dawn they came down for breakfast at Khartoum, where the stewardess, assisted by the First Officer, made another unsuccessful attempt to arouse the slumbering Mr Holden. ‘We’re supposed to turn everyone out at these stops,’ explained the First Officer, ‘but short of carrying him out, and back in again, there doesn’t seem to be much that we can do about this one. He must have been on one hell of a bender. Lucky chap! Oh well — let him lie. Are you with him, Miss — er____?’

  ‘Kitchell,’ supplied Dany hastily. ‘Yes. I’m his secretary.’

  ‘Tough luck! What are you going to do about him when we reach Nairobi?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Dany truthfully. ‘But he’s bound to wake up before then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said the First Officer cheerfully, and went away followed by the stewardess.

  Dany and the remainder of the passengers, looking heavy-eyed and somewhat creased, had eaten breakfast and exchanged wan, polite smiles as the sun rose over Ethiopia. Sir Ambrose Yardley had left, looking regretful, and his place had been taken by a stout Indian. But otherwise the passenger list was unchanged, and the weary, yawning faces were beginning to look as familiar to Dany as though she had known them all for several years.

  Lash had woken shortly after they had taken off again. He had looked at Dany as though he had no idea at all who she was, and having informed his Maker that he felt terrible, had staggered off to the men’s washroom where he had apparently drunk several quarts of richly chlorinated water, and returning to his seat had instantly fallen asleep again.

  Dany peered anxiously down at Africa and did not think much of it. A vast, flat expanse of orange-brown, broken by splashes of livid green and dotted with clusters of pigmy beehives which she took to be native kraals. But at last there arose on the horizon a blue shadow topped by twin snow peaks.

  ‘Mount Kenya,’ announced an enthusiastic passenger who had been studying the flight card. ‘We should be coming down to land soon. We’re due at Nairobi at eleven, and I make it a quarter to.’

  ‘Will passengers please fasten their seat belts,’ intoned the stewardess, and Dany turned her attention to the arduous task of rousing her employer.

  5

  ‘L’me alone,’ mumbled Mr Holden thickly, and without opening his eyes.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Dany, continuing to shake him. ‘Wake up! You can’t go on sleeping any longer. At least, not here. We’ll be in Nairobi in a few minutes.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘We get out there,’ explained Dany patiently. ‘This particular plane goes no further. Remember? You’ve got to wake up. Lash, please wake up!’

  ‘Go t’hell,’ murmured Lash indistinctly.

  Dany shook him viciously, and Lash moaned and attempted to sit upright. He forced open his eyes with a palpable effort and shut them again quickly.

  ‘God! I feel terrible!’

  ‘That’s what you said before,’ snapped Dany unsympathetically. ‘And you look it!’

  Lash opened his eyes again, but with caution, and scowled at her. ‘Do I know you?’ he inquired.

  Oh dear God, he means it! thought Dany with desperation. He really means it! he doesn’t remember____ Panic threatened to rise and engulf her, but she fought it down.

  ‘You should,’ she observed briskly. ‘I’m your new secretary.’

 
; ‘Rubbish! What’s happened to Ada?’

  ‘Mumps,’ said Dany succinctly.

  ‘Then how in hell____? Oh, let it go! Let it go! I’ll sort it out later. God____! Have I got a hangover!’

  The aircraft touched down on the runway with a light bump and Lash clutched his head and groaned aloud.

  * * *

  Dany could never remember afterwards how she had got through the next half hour, but at least she had had no time in which to be frightened. There had been no sign of Tyson’s secretary, Nigel Ponting, and somehow or other she had collected her luggage, and Lash Holden’s, piloted him through a maze of official procedure, steered him through the customs and shepherded him into a taxi. Her passport — or more correctly, Ada Kitchell’s — had received only the most cursory glance, and once in the taxi Lash had roused himself sufficiently to recall the name of the hotel where those passengers who were booked through to Zanzibar were to spend the night.

  ‘Holden?’ said the receptionist, peering shortsightedly through rimless glasses. ‘Mr L. J. Holden? Oh yes. Yes, of course. We were expecting you.’ She beamed on them as though their safe arrival was a matter for congratulation. ‘Your rooms are reserved. I hope you had a pleasant flight? There is a message from a Mr Ponting. He had to see the dentist — an emergency stopping, and he could get no other appointment. But he will be calling round later and hopes you will forgive him for not having been at the airport.’

  ‘His loss, our gain,’ said Lash sourly. ‘Let’s hope he gets a gumboil as well, and is hung up at the dentist’s indefinitely. Suits me.’

  ‘Er … um … quite,’ said the receptionist with an uncertain smile. ‘The boys will take your luggage along, madam. Sign here please, sir. Now is there anything you would like sent up____?’

  ‘Black coffee,’ said Lash. ‘A bath of it. And some Alka-Seltzer.’

  ‘Er — certainly. Of course. Will the other lady be arriving later?’

  ‘No,’ said Lash shortly. ‘There isn’t another lady. Where’s this room? I can’t stand here half the day.’

  The receptionist left her desk in charge of an African clerk, and graciously accompanied the procession herself, ushering them at last into a sitting-room lavishly supplied with flowers. There was also, somewhat unexpectedly, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, and two glasses.

  ‘With the management’s compliments,’ beamed the receptionist, and withdrew.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ said Dany. ‘What about me? Where do I____?’ But the door had closed.

  Lashmer Holden Jnr sat down heavily on the sofa, put his head in his hands and gave every indication of taking no further interest in the proceedings, and Dany looked at the flowers and the champagne, and struck by an unpleasant thought, crossed the room quickly and opened the only other door. It led into a bedroom where there were more flowers — orange blossom among them — and an impressive double bed.

  ‘It’s the honeymoon suite!’ said Dany blankly. ‘For heaven’s sake____!’

  She returned in haste to the sitting-room. ‘You’ll have to do something. There’s been a mistake. They think we’re married!’

  Lash winced and said very distinctly: ‘Would you mind not yelling at me?’

  ‘But this is the Bridal Suite!’

  ‘Yeah. I booked it.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Don’t shout!’ implored Lash testily.

  ‘You mean to sit there and tell me that____? Is this your idea of a joke?’

  ‘Joke!’ said Lash bitterly. ‘If you think that being jilted on the eve of your wedding, and all for the sake of a grinning, greasy-haired, hand-kissing son of a snake-in-the-grass who____ Oh, go away! Be a good girl and get the hell out of here.’

  ‘Elf!’ said Dany, enlightened. ‘I forgot. Oh, Lash, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to … I mean, I…’ She stopped, confused and remorseful.

  ‘I’ll take it as read,’ said Lash. ‘And now, if you don’t mind fading away, I think I could do with some sleep. Thanks very much for your help. Good-bye.’

  He dropped his head back into his hands again and Dany stood looking down at him with an exasperation that was replaced, suddenly and entirely unexpectedly, by a strong desire to pillow his ruffled, aching head on her breast and whisper consolation and endearments. And this to a man whom she had met only forty-eight hours before, and who, having been instrumental in landing her in this intolerable and probably dangerous situation, could not now even bring himself to remember her!

  I must be going out of my mind! thought Dany, astounded at herself. And anyway, he’s in love with that Gordon woman, and he’s been drinking himself silly because she threw him over. He doesn’t care one bit what happens to me. All he wants to do is to get rid of me as soon as possible. He’s selfish and stupid and spoiled and egotistical, and he drinks. And drinks!

  But it was no use. She could not even feel indignant about it, and she still wanted to stroke his hair and comfort him. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, thought Dany. I suppose this is it!

  In common with all young women she had dreamed of the time when she would fall in love. It would be a romantic and rapturous and altogether wonderful moment, and the hero of it would certainly not be a pallid and dishevelled stranger who was suffering from an imperial hangover, and who was himself hopelessly in love with a glamorous widow who had jilted him for an Italian marquis!

  Nothing, it seemed, turned out as one had pictured it or planned it. Life was very disappointing. ‘Damn!’ said Dany aloud and deliberately.

  Lashmer Holden flinched. There was a rap on the door and a white-robed African entered with a tray that bore coffee, a jug of water, a glass, and some Alka-Seltzer. Dany was relieved to find that he both spoke and understood English, and having given him several precise orders she dismissed him and turned her attention to the tray.

  The coffee, though not supplied in the quantity originally suggested, was hot and very strong, and she poured out a cup of it and took it over to the sufferer. ‘Try some of this,’ she suggested. ‘It’ll probably make you feel a lot better.’

  Lash lifted his head and scowled at her, but he took the coffee and drank it. Dany removed his empty cup, refilled it and handed it back, and went into the bedroom. She had already possessed herself of his keys in the Customs shed at the airport, and now she unlocked his dressing-case and dealt efficiently with the contents.

  ‘I’ve run you a bath,’ she announced, returning to the sitting-room. ‘You look as though you could do with one. And you need a shave. You’ll find your brushes and things in the dressing-room, and the room waiter will be along with something to eat in about twenty minutes. I’m not sure whether it’s an early luncheon or a late breakfast, but I don’t suppose it matters. Don’t be too long, or it will be cold.’

  She left him to it, and went away to sort out the room situation with the desk clerk and the receptionist, and returned sometime later looking thoughtful. A room-boy was waiting with a laden tray, and she told him to leave it on the table, and that he need not wait, and after he had gone she stood for several minutes staring thoughtfully at a forlorn white object that was lying upside down on the floor, displaying a neat satin label that guaranteed it to be washable and heat-proof.

  ‘Poor Asbestos!’ said Dany, stooping and picking him up. She dusted him off and replaced him, right-side-up, on the sofa: ‘I suppose he’s lost interest in you too. Never mind. I’ll look after you. And him — if it kills me!’

  There was a faint sound behind her and she turned to find Lash standing in the doorway.

  He was looking exceedingly pale and there were dark circles under his eyes, but he had shaved, and his hair was wet and smooth. He had apparently found the effort to look out a change of clothes too much for him, for he was wearing pyjamas and the bottle-green dressing-gown, and he looked exhausted and ill and bad tempered.

  ‘Do you make a habit of talking to yourself?’ he inquired morosely.

  Dany flushed, but ignored the question. She said, �
��Your food’s come. The soup looks rather good, and it’s hot. I didn’t think you’d like curry, so I ordered steak.’

  Lash shuddered, but he drank the soup, and feeling slightly revived by it, managed to eat a reasonable quantity of steak, and topped it off with two more cups of black coffee. After which he lit a cigarette, and said grudgingly: ‘Thanks. I feel slightly better. I guess I must have been pretty well plastered. The whole thing is a blur.’

  ‘Including me,’ said Dany.

  ‘Yes — no. I seem to remember thinking it was a good idea to bring you along instead of Ada, though God alone knows why.’

  Dany told him. At length and in detail.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Mr Holden hoarsely, breaking the long silence that had followed that recital. ‘I — simply — do — not — believe — it!’

  ‘Well it’s true!’ said Dany hotly. ‘And if you think I’d take the trouble to invent such a — a nauseatingly improbable story, I can only say____’

  ‘I couldn’t be such a brainless, godammed, half-witted moron,’ continued Lash as though she had not spoken. ‘I couldn’t. No one could! Are you giving me a line? No — no, I suppose not. For the love of Mike, why did you pay any attention to me? Couldn’t you see I was higher than a kite and not responsible for my actions? Hell! you must have known I was drunk!

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dany, ‘but you see I’d never met anyone who was drunk before. Aunt Harriet, you know,’ she explained kindly.

  ‘No, I don’t know your Aunt Harriet! But____ Now listen — you can’t have thought that I was talking sense. You can’t!’

  ‘I thought you were just — cheerful and optimistic.’

  ‘Cheerful and optimistic! God Almighty!’ He pushed his chair back violently, and rising from the table began to pace up and down the room like some caged tiger. ‘Look — you must have been able to work it out for yourself. That the whole thing was crazy, I mean. Stark, raving crazy. And that I must have been crazy to suggest it! And anyway, how were you to know that I wasn’t? You didn’t even know me! For all you knew I might have escaped from the local asylum!’