Death in Zanzibar

by M. M. Kaye

  Nigel was saying pettishly: ‘But really, Mrs Bingham, one cannot bring oneself to believe that Providence is interested in such matters as a coal falling out of your drawing-room fire or a fog to delay your train, or the fact that passport photographs always make one look so painfully improbable that you were impelled to share the joke with some friend. Now I myself am more interested in psychology, and it is my contention that when you left that passport on the piano____’

  Dany rose abruptly. She did not want to listen to any more talk of passports, or the Airlane, or anything else that forced her to think of frightening and horrible things, and she handed her folded coat to Lash and said briefly: ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Feeling all right?’ inquired Lash, half standing to let her pass. ‘You’re looking a bit green.’

  ‘No. I’m quite all right, thank you.’

  She went quickly down the aisle and took refuge in the ladies’ room, where she stood staring out of the window at the wide blue sky and the little idling clouds. But her thoughts had only come with her, and she could not hold them at bay.

  Gussie Bingham … Millicent Bates … Jembe … Mr Honeywood. Murder in Market-Lydon …

  Dany gave it up and returned to her seat.

  The tiny, dragon-fly shadow of the aeroplane flitted across muddy green water, mangrove swamps and forests of palm trees … Mombasa. ‘May I have your attention please? The indicator will tell you when to fasten your seat belts. In a few minutes we shall be coming in to land____’

  The passengers trooped out dutifully into hard sunlight and a salty smell of the sea, and among them Dany noticed the slim Arab in the white suit whom she had seen Salim Abeid talking to so excitedly at Nairobi that morning.

  Apparently there were others on the plane who also knew him, for Nigel Ponting, catching sight of him, left Mrs Bingham’s side and hurried after him. They shook hands and stood talking together for a few minutes on the hot, sandy tarmac, and Dany, passing them, heard Tyson’s secretary say: ‘I do hope you had a lovely time? Frankly, Nairobi is not my cup of tea. But of course it’s different for you — you’ve friends there. Now I went up to the Northern Frontier with Bunny, and____’ The words ‘deliciously stark’ pursued her as she reached the shade of the airport entrance.

  Salim Abeid — ‘Jembe’, pushed past her, looking far from well, and making for the opposite side of the room he sat down at a small table, ordered himself a cup of black coffee, and began to read an Arabic newspaper which he held in noticeably trembling hands.

  The waiting-room of the airport was hot and crowded, and Lash having left her to her own devices, Dany bought a magazine at random off the bookstall and retired with it to a comparatively secluded seat near a pillar. But she did not read it. She sat staring unseeingly at the printed page and listening absently to the medley of accents about her, until her attention was attracted by a large framed advertisement for a local air-line that hung on one side of the pillar a little to her left.

  The advertisement, she discovered, was painted on looking-glass, and in it she could see the reflection of Gussie Bingham’s blue curls, Millicent Bates’ pudding-basin hat, and Amalfi Gordon’s flower-like face.

  Amalfi, thought Dany, was not looking her best this morning. She looked as though she were hot and rather cross, and the conversation of Eduardo di Chiago, whose handsome hawk-like profile was just visible at the extreme edge of the looking-glass, appeared to be boring her, for she was replying to it in monosyllables and allowing her gaze to wander. Mrs Bingham, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying herself. She was laughing at something that someone had said, and all at once the wild idea that she might have had anything to do with the murder of Mr Honeywood was exposed as utterly ridiculous.

  Perhaps it had been the Arab, Jembe, after all. Or else it was some stranger on the London plane whom she had taken no note of. Or even Sir Ambrose Yardley! The complete absurdity of that last thought drew a wan smile from Dany: she was letting her imagination run away with her with a vengeance! And anyway, Sir Ambrose had not been in Nairobi last night. It must be some stranger …

  The group in the looking-glass broke up and moved away, and she could no longer see the reflection of anyone she knew. Passengers on other flights arrived and left again, and the waiting-room became noisier and more crowded. Dany’s head began to ache intolerably, and every separate sound in the medley of sounds became an added irritation: a fretful Indian child wailing with dismal persistence, the crash of an overturned cup and the trickle of spilt liquid, the shrill giggling chatter of a covey of Arab matrons, and the loud laughter of a group of young planters round the bar.

  ‘You never told me you could read Arabic,’ remarked Lash’s voice behind her.

  Dany started violently and bit her tongue, and focusing for the first time on the magazine that she held, discovered that it was indeed printed in a totally unfamiliar script.

  Lash reached across her shoulder, and twitching the magazine out of her hands, reversed it and handed it back. He said: ‘You’ll forgive me for mentioning it, Miss Kitchell, but there’s nothing quite so conspicuous as someone pretending to read a paper that they’re holding upside down. And that fresh boy-friend of yours, the newspaper guy, has been watching your reflection in that slice of glass with considerable interest. It’s a game that two can play. Maybe he just likes red-heads — but then again he might have other ideas.’

  Dany said breathlessly: ‘Larry Dowling? What ideas? He — he couldn’t know anything. And anyway he’s only interested in people like Tyson. And politics.’

  ‘That’s a buyer’s estimate,’ said Lash dryly. ‘Murder is news any place. So just try and stop acting like you had a ton-load of guilt on your conscience. It shows.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dany in a small voice.

  ‘That’s O.K. It’s not much longer. We’re almost there.’

  ‘But not quite,’ said Dany unsteadily.

  ‘Where’s your fighting spirit?’

  ‘I haven’t any — Not at present.’

  Lash said: ‘Poor baby.’ But without sarcasm. And then once again a quacking, disembodied voice from the amplifier cut through the fog of babel in the crowded room:

  ‘Passengers on flight zero three four, proceeding to Tanga, Pemba, Zanzibar and Dar-es-Salaam…’

  9

  They walked out into the glaring sunlight and a sea wind that sang through the casuarinas and whipped hot grains of sand against their legs, and took their places in the waiting plane; dutifully fastening their seat belts and stubbing out cigarettes. Larry Dowling, from a seat just behind Dany and across the aisle, called out: ‘Hi____ Stewardess! we’re one short. Don’t shut that door. My neighbour isn’t here yet. Mr Salim Abeid.’

  The stewardess smiled in the tolerant manner of a school teacher coping with a backward new boy, and said sweetly: ‘Thank you, I have the list. There is no need to worry. He will be along in a minute.’

  But five minutes ticked by, and then ten, and though the plane vibrated to the roar of the engines it did not move, and the passengers began to fidget restlessly, turning to peer over their shoulders at the open door or to look anxiously at their watches.

  ‘What’s holding us up?’ demanded a stout man from a seat near the front. He rose and looked down the aisle, his red face purpling with indignation. ‘We shall be late at this rate, and I’ve got a conference on at Tanga at 10.15. Hey! Stewardess — Miss!’

  The stewardess turned and smiled a bright official smile. ‘Just a moment, sir.’ She leaned out and spoke to someone through the open door, and then came quickly down the aisle and vanished into the pilot’s cabin. Two more minutes passed, and then she reappeared accompanied by the captain and the First Officer, and all three left the plane.

  ‘Now what?’ demanded the gentleman who had a conference in Tanga. ‘This is the ruddy limit! How much longer do they intend to keep us hanging about?’ He lumbered wrathfully down the aisle and peered out into the sunlight, and th
ey could hear him shouting down to someone on the tarmac.

  ‘Really,’ said Nigel Ponting in a fading voice, ‘these business types and their hustle! As if half an hour one way or another mattered!’

  ‘There I don’t agree at all,’ said Gussie Bingham tartly. ‘Delay is always maddening. And it will probably be most inconvenient for Tyson, who is sure to be meeting us. What do you suppose is holding us up?’

  ‘Whatever it is, dear lady, it is surely a comfort to know that it is Meant,’ said Nigel with malice. ‘But let us trust that it is not some vital fault in the engines, or we shall be pre-destined to wait here for hours!’

  Mrs Bingham was saved the necessity of finding an adequate retort to this shrewd shot by the return of the Tanga-bound passenger. ‘Seems that one of the Zanzibar passengers has been taken ill,’ he announced, and went angrily back to his seat. ‘Can’t think why we should all be held up for a thing like that. Do they expect us to wait until he feels better?’

  At this point the stewardess returned, looking flushed and put out, and made a brief announcement: ‘May I have your attention, please? I am afraid that we shall be delayed for a further — er — few minutes. We are so sorry that you should be put to this inconvenience, but we hope it will not be too long before we — er — take off. You may smoke if you wish, but will you all please keep your seats.’

  Once again a buzz of conversation broke out; to die away as two airport officials and a young European police officer in a starched khaki uniform entered the plane. One of the officials spoke politely and briefly into the microphone: ‘Sorry to trouble you, but we have to make another passport check. Will you have your passports ready, please?’

  Dany threw a wild, terrified glance at Lash, but he did not return it. He drew out his own passport and held out a hand for hers, still without looking at her, and his complete lack of emotion brought her some measure of reassurance. She could hear the voices and footsteps and the rustle of paper as the officials passed up the aisle, examining every passport, checking it against a list and jotting down brief notes on a loose-leaf pad.

  ‘Holden,’ said Lash laconically, handing over his passport as they stopped beside him. ‘My secretary, Miss Kitchell.’

  Dany forced herself to meet the man’s gaze and hold it calmly, and although it seemed to her that he stood there for an appalling length of time, it was, in fact, all over in under three minutes. They had only asked one question: the same question that they had put to everyone on the plane. ‘Where can you be reached during the next ten days?’

  Even the young police officer had heard of Tyson Frost, and had read his books. ‘Another of you,’ he said jotting down the address. ‘Mr Frost seems to be throwing quite a party. He’s a wonderful chap, isn’t he? I saw him when he came through here a few months ago. Got his autograph, too!’

  The boy grinned and passed on to the next passenger, and Dany relaxed again. It was all just some routine check after all. She turned to smile her relief at Lash, but Lash was not smiling. He was looking, on the contrary, remarkably grim and there was a curious suggestion of alertness about him: as though his nerves and muscles were tensed. It was the same look that he had worn during the previous night, and it frightened Dany.

  The three men came back down the aisle, their check completed, and Larry Dowling said: ‘How is he, officer? — Mr Abeid? Nothing infectious, I hope? He seemed all right when he got off just now. Is he really bad?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said the police officer shortly, and departed.

  There was a brief shocked silence. The silence that must always greet such an announcement, whether it refers to a friend or a stranger. The ending of a life.

  It was broken by Millicent Bates, who said loudly and incredulously: ‘Dead? D’you mean that Arab chap who was on the London plane with us? What rubbish! They must have made a mistake. Why, he was chatting away to Mr Dowling, on and off, all the way from Nairobi. I heard him. He can’t possibly be dead!’

  ‘Heart, I expect,’ said Larry Dowling uncomfortably. ‘He said he always felt bad in a plane. He looked a bit green. But he can’t have been air-sick. We haven’t bumped about at all. I think it was just nerves.’

  ‘As long as it’s not plague or cholera or one of those beastly Eastern diseases!’ said Millicent with an audible shudder. ‘I told you we should regret coming out East, Gussie!’

  Dany heard Mrs Bingham turn sharply in her seat. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Millicent! Of course it can’t be anything infectious. If it were they’d quarantine the lot of us!’

  ‘How do we know they haven’t?’ inquired Miss Bates. ‘We’re still here!’

  The entire plane was silent again, digesting this. Presently the silence was broken by the return of the captain and the First Officer, and five minutes later Mombasa Airport was behind them — a dwindling speck among toy trees.

  Dany turned to look at Lash again, and said in an anxious undertone: ‘Would they really quarantine us if it was something infectious?’

  ‘If it had been anything infectious they’d never have let us leave.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. I didn’t think of that. I suppose it must have been a heart attack. Or a heat stroke.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Lash curtly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have taken all that trouble to check up on the lot of us, and make certain of being able to get in touch with us again, if it were anything as simple as that. They think it’s something else.’

  Once again Dany was conscious of feeling oddly breathless. She said: ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Then you’re lucky,’ said Lash briefly, and put a stop to any further conversation by lying back and closing his eyes with deliberation.

  Small puff-ball clouds lazed in the hot blue air and trailed their shadows far below across acres of pineapple plantations spiked with sisal, and thick, pale, leafless baobab trees …

  Tanga, and another wait: shorter this time. An agonizing wait: but there were no police officers to meet the plane. The voice of the stewardess again: ‘May I have your attention, please. The indicator will tell you when to fasten your seat belts…’

  Now they were over the sea. A glassy sea that merged into a glassy sky with no line anywhere to show where one ended and the other began: blue and green, violet and amethyst, streaked with the pale ribbons of wandering currents; the colours shifting and changing as the shadow of the plane swept across deep water, coral beds, rock bottom or sandy shallows.

  Pemba: the Green Island. Rich in cloves and dark with the legends of witches, demons and warlocks. A long, sandy runway and the sea wind rustling the palm-leaf thatch and matting sides of the little hut that did duty for airport office and waiting-room. Amalfi Gordon, looking as out of place as a diamond tiara in the one-and-ninepennies, and gazing in horrified disbelief at an enormous slow-moving millepede that was crawling placidly across the dusty floor. Millicent Bates, her worst fears realized and ‘What Did I Tell You?’ written all over her. Gussie Bingham, seated on the extreme edge of a wooden bench upon which she had first thoughtfully spread a clean handkerchief, and also watching the millepede with an expression of acute apprehension. Eduardo di Chiago, Nigel Ponting and the Arab in the white suit standing together in the open doorway, silhouetted against the hot empty expanse of sand and sky, talking together in Italian. And Larry Dowling fanning himself with his new panama hat and gazing absently at a framed poster that urged prospective travellers to ‘Fly BOAC.’

  There were eight other passengers of assorted nationalities in the hot little hut. A stout German business man, a Swedish tourist hung about with expensive cameras, two British army officers on leave, a Parsee, an elderly Indian couple and a citizen of the United States of America — Mr Lashmer J. Holden Jnr, who once again appeared to have fallen asleep.

  How can he just doze off like that, thought Dany indignantly, when we shall be arriving in Zanzibar in no time at all, and if they’ve heard anything there we may find police waitin
g for us at the airport? And if Mother is there to meet us she’ll know me at once, even in spectacles and with this hideous hair-fixing, and suppose she says something in front of the passport and customs people before we can stop her, and____ Oh, I wish it were all over! How can he go to sleep!

  Lash opened one eye, winked at her solemnly, and shut it again, and Dany blushed as hotly as though she had been caught speaking her thoughts aloud. She turned her back on him with deliberation as Nigel Ponting drifted in and introduced the Arab:

  ‘Here’s someone you simply must meet. Seyyid Omar-bin-Sultan. He has a simply heavenly, heavenly house in Zanzibar. In fact two — or is it three? Anyway, if you want to see the island you must lure him into taking you on a conducted tour. No one can tell you as much about it as he can. He practically is Zanzibar!’

  Seyyid Omar smiled and bowed. His English was as fluent as his Italian had been and he spoke it with barely a trace of an accent. He in no way resembled his compatriot, the late Mr Salim Abeid, for his complexion was no darker than the Marchese di Chiago’s, and he was a charming and entertaining conversationalist.

  Lash did not open his eyes again until the passengers were summoned once more to take their seats in the plane, but as they left the little palm-thatched hut he took Dany’s arm and delayed her, walking slowly until the others had drawn ahead.

  ‘Now get this,’ said Lash, speaking quickly and in an undertone. ‘When we get there, waste as much time as you can before you leave the plane. Fuss over the baggage — anything. But get right at the end of the line. I’ve got to see your mother first — if she’s at the airport. Or your step-father. Or both. Otherwise we’re going to find ourselves in the can before we can blink twice. Got that?’