Death in Zanzibar

by M. M. Kaye

She sighed and swung the hammock with one foot, and after a silent interval began a little diffidently: ‘Darling … about Lash____’ And then did not seem to know how to go on.

  Dany said, startled: ‘What about him?’

  ‘You rather like him, don’t you, darling?’

  Dany blushed to the roots of that distressing dyed hair, and Lorraine, observing the unfortunate colour effect, said abstractedly: ‘No — quite the wrong shade for you. It is a pity.’

  ‘Mother, what are you talking about?’ demanded Dany.

  Lorraine threw a hunted look over her shoulder. ‘Darling, don’t! Suppose anyone were to hear you?’

  ‘There isn’t anyone anywhere near,’ said Dany. ‘What were you saying about Lash?’

  ‘Well — I felt perhaps I ought to say something, because it did rather occur to me that you perhaps liked him more than — let’s say, than a secretary should. And after all, he is rather an attractive creature, and…’

  She made a slight helpless gesture with one hand, and once again did not finish the sentence.

  ‘And what?’ said Dany defensively.

  ‘Well, darling, I happened to go out on to the terrace last night to fetch a magazine I’d left there, and I saw you two coming back to the house. You looked very — friendly.’

  Dany said nothing, and Lorraine gave a small unhappy sigh. ‘I’m afraid I’m a useless parent,’ she said. ‘The trouble is, I don’t seem to know how to behave like one. But I do feel that as a parent I ought to say something. About Lash, I mean. You do know that he was to have married Elf — Mrs Gordon — don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. You told me in your letter. And so did he.’

  ‘Oh, well; that’s something.’ Lorraine sounded relieved. ‘But darling, you will be a little careful, won’t you? You see, you’ve met so few men so far. That’s been my fault, I suppose: I’ve been horribly selfish and not really remembered how quickly time goes. I was always going to be a good mother one day, but you always seemed such a baby. And now suddenly you’ve grown up. But you don’t want to go losing your heart to the first attractive man you meet. In fact it’s the greatest possible mistake! It’s not that I’ve got anything against Lash, but…’

  ‘Which means that you have,’ said Dany coldly.

  ‘No, I haven’t, baby. Really. It’s just that Tyson says he’s had a lot of girls, and — well, he simply adored Elf, and men do do such silly things on the rebound: snatch at admiration from the nearest person who offers it, to bolster up their wounded egos. It doesn’t mean anything. I like Lash, but he’s as wild as a hawk and I’m not sure I’d trust him as far as I could throw a grand piano. Elf can manage that type; but when one is young and romantic and naïve, one is apt to take things — and people — at their face value. So — so you will just think a bit, won’t you, darling? I mean, you don’t have to believe everything he says, just because he’s gay and good looking and has a fair share of charm. Take it all____’

  ‘With a pinch of salt?’ interrupted Dany bitterly. ‘I know!’

  ‘I was going to say “in your stride”,’ said Lorraine reproachfully. ‘But salt will do. After all, it improves so many things, doesn’t it darling? Oh — here comes Larry. He’s rather a charmer, isn’t he. I’m glad we asked him to stay — though Tyson’s being a bit sour about him. He says we ought to watch out, because Larry’s the type that all women trust on sight and end up falling for, and that all the best bigamists and confidence tricksters have been that kind of man. You know, it’s astonishing how catty men can be about each other when — Hullo, Larry. Are you looking for anyone?’

  ‘No,’ said Larry, smiling. ‘Just looking around. This is a fascinating old place you’ve got here, Mrs Frost. That wall at the end of the garden is a good ten feet thick if it’s an inch. There must have been guard rooms or stables in it once. Were they bricked up?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Lorraine vaguely. ‘If you’re interested, I’m sure you’ll find all about it in old Barclay’s book. Are you going to the city with us later on?’

  ‘Certainly; if you’ll take me. Is there any chance of your husband joining us?’

  ‘He’s meeting us at the hotel for tea,’ said Lorraine, rising. She turned and smiled at Dany. ‘I’ll leave you in possession of the hammock, Miss Kitchell. You ought to put your feet up and have a rest. We shan’t be leaving for at least an hour.’

  She took Larry Dowling away with her down the winding path between the orange trees and the roses, and Dany watched them go and thought of Lash; and of what he had said only last night about Amalfi Gordon. He had not sounded as though he were still in love with her. But had it just been bitterness and sour grapes?

  You don’t have to believe everything he says …

  Was she just ‘young and romantic and naïve’? An inexperienced school-girl, taking things and people at their face value? How was one to know? How did one ever learn? The hard way? Had Lash only made love to her because he was snatching at the nearest bit of admiration to soothe his sore ego? Trying to show Amalfi that he did not care?

  For the better part of an hour Dany lay in the hammock, staring up at the blue chips of sky through the thick scented canopy of leaves and flowers over her head, her mind so fully occupied with personal problems that she never once thought of Mr Honeywood, or of Jembe, or of Millicent Bates — or of murder. And then, without warning, sleep reached out a light finger and touched her eyes, and she did not even hear Lorraine and Lash when they came in search of her.

  It was close on five o’clock when she awoke, and the shadows had lengthened in the garden and the heat had gone from the day. The house was very quiet, but she found Nigel in the drawing-room, sipping China tea and reading a week-old London newspaper.

  He dropped the paper on the floor and came to his feet when he saw her, but Dany, glancing down, found her eye caught by familiar words: ‘Man Murdered in Market-Lydon.’

  Nigel, following the direction of her gaze, laughed and said: ‘You have caught me red-handed, Miss Kitchell — soaking myself in crime on the sly. I blush for it. Too fish-and-chip. But to tell you the honest truth, after all that sordid chit-chat the other night I felt quite intrigued. That Bates woman went on and on about it, until one couldn’t help wondering what she was getting at: if anything, of course! But one felt, somehow, that there was something … Do sit down and have some tea. Indian or China? The China is divine. Tyson has it sent direct from some aromatic old Mandarin friend in Canton.’

  Dany accepted a cup of pale yellowish-green liquid that smelt of dried flowers, and listened a little abstractedly to Nigel’s light, melodious voice lilting on and on in a nonstop monologue. It was, she discovered, quite easy to listen to Nigel and think of something else. And then, with shocking suddenness, she was jerked out of her detachment.

  ‘Now do tell me,’ said Nigel, ‘who you really are? I won’t tell a soul. Of course one can guess. But it has been intriguing me so. Deliciously mystifying!’

  Dany gaped at him and dropped her cup.

  ‘Tiens! Tiens!’ said Mr Ponting, leaping gracefully to his feet and repairing the damage. ‘I am sorry. Entirely my fault. But honestly, dear Miss Whoeveritis, you simply couldn’t be Ada Kitchell — not by any stretch of the most elastic imagination. And you have no idea how flexible mine is!’

  Dany said stonily: ‘Why couldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well darling – your voice! Utterly Nancy Mitford. Not a whisper of the New World in it. And what woman ever wore spectacles if she didn’t need them? Why, those are just plain glass! And — well, not to labour the point, a little blonde bird told me that actually there is a rumour flying about to the effect that poor Ada is at this moment incarcerated in the Islington Isolation Hospital with mumps.’

  ‘Mrs Gordon!’ said Dany involuntarily. ‘I might have known it!’

  ‘Well, frankly, darling, I do think that you might. However, don’t let it worry you. It probably isn’t true, and anyway I won’t breathe a syllable. Now do tell me: I�
��m dying to know. Why? And of course, Who? … though of course one can make a very accurate little guess at that one, can’t one?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can one?’

  ‘But of course! There is really nothing subtle about our sweet Lorraine, and when she hurries about the house removing every single photograph of her darling daughter, one does tend to ask oneself a few shy little questions. Not that there were many photographs. Lorraine is not what one would term madly maternal. But there were just one or two. And where are they now? “Gone with the wind that blew through Georgia?” But she forgot that there is a liberally illustrated volume lying around, all about explorations in Central somewhere, which includes a handsome photograph of her first husband; and I fear I was inquisitive enough to take a tiny peek. You really are very like your father, you know. The resemblance was quite remarkable as soon as one saw you without those spectacles and that distressing fringe. You forgot them the other night.’

  Dany got up and went over to the window, and stood with her back to the room, tugging nervously at the edge of the curtain and staring blindly out at the garden. Her first feeling of panic had subsided, and now she was only conscious of a lessening of tension and a certain degree of relief. Being Miss Kitchell was a strain, and it was going to be very restful to be Dany Ashton again, and to stop pretending — and being frightened. But she wished that Lorraine were here. Or Tyson, or Lash. Someone to advise her as to what she should say and how much she could say.

  Had everyone seen through her? Had they all guessed? Not the passport officials at all events! and they were the only ones who really mattered — except for Larry Dowling, who must not guess.

  She said: ‘Has Mrs Gordon told everyone?’

  ‘About Ada? Oh, I don’t think so. She may have whispered something into Eduardo’s lovely brown ear, but he won’t be in the least interested; and I’m quite sure she wouldn’t tell anyone else. Not Gussie anyway. And certainly not our intrusive Mr Dowling.’

  Dany turned quickly. ‘Why do you say that? Are you sure?’

  ‘That she wouldn’t have twittered to Larry? But my dear, of course not! the man writes for the newspapers, and if he got his predatory little pen on to this, Tyson and your lovely Mum would be distinctly testy, and Amalfi wouldn’t like being shown the door at all. You’re quite, quite safe there. At least, for the time being. I suppose it’s all bound to come out sometime or other, but, with any luck, after our scribbling little friend has got his interview — and enough material to libel the lot of us — and left.’

  The thought of Mr Larry Dowling appeared to divert Nigel’s interest into other channels, for he frowned and said: ‘I simply cannot understand what Tyson is playing at. Why doesn’t he give the man an interview and a basin full of facts, and send him off? Why ask him to the house and keep him hanging about? — putting him off, and putting him off. Really, very vexing. I wish you’d tell me what he’s up to. I suppose you know?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Mr Dowling,’ said Dany hastily, evading the question.

  ‘And how much do you know about Mr Holden, I wonder?’ said Nigel, and gave a malicious, knowing little giggle. His face was both mocking and sly, and Dany said hotly: ‘What do you mean?’

  Nigel looked at her with his head on one side like some large, sleek, wary bird — a secretary bird. Then he put a finger to his lips and rose swiftly and silently and went quickly and very quietly to the door that led into the hall, and jerked it open.

  The whole manoeuvre bore such an exaggerated air of secrecy and stealth that Dany quite expected to see a crouching figure disclosed, kneeling with its ear to the keyhole. But the hall was empty, and having satisfied himself that there was no one there or in the courtyard, Nigel returned to his chair looking slightly self-conscious.

  ‘Forgive the amateur theatricals, but I would so much prefer not to be overheard. I take it that you don’t really know much about the merry Mr Holden? apart from the usual things — the fact that he was head over heels about the bewitching Amalfi, and got pipped at the post by Eduardo (there ought to be a law against these Latins, don’t you agree?). But otherwise, has he spilled the beans? Are you, in the distressing jargon of the age, “hep”?’

  Dany said uncertainly: ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t you? Hasn’t it ever struck you that there is something a little — odd about Lash Holden?’

  ‘No. Why “odd”?’

  ‘Well, “peculiar” if you prefer the word. And don’t start jumping down my throat, I beg! As you see, I have been the soul of tact, and refrained from probing into why you feel it necessary to masquerade as his secretary. But hasn’t it ever struck you as odd how very conveniently he always turns up at just exactly the right moment? Just like one of those painfully competent G-men. Or would it be more accurate to say, like some really expert card-sharp at work? It all looks so casual and simple; “Hey presto! — and here’s the Ace of Spades; now how on earth did it turn up there? What an astounding piece of luck!” But is it?’

  Dany came back to her chair, but she did not sit down: she held on to the back of it and stared at Nigel, white-faced:

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Nothing, darling. I’m merely trying to hint. So much safer I always think, don’t you? You see, Lashmer Holden, Senior, is a very old friend of Tyson’s — an intimate friend, one might say. There isn’t anything about Tyson or his house or his affairs that he doesn’t know, and he also has the reputation of being one of those forthright characters whose motto is “Never Give a Sucker an Even Break”.’

  He saw Dany start, and said: ‘Why the surprise? What have I said?’

  ‘N-nothing,’ stammered Dany. ‘It was just that____ What were you saying about Lash’s father?’

  ‘Only that Pop Holden is what is technically termed a tough egg. He sticks at nothing and he has of late been edging on to queer street.’

  ‘On to____?’

  ‘Queer Street, darling. Don’t be all ingénue. I believe he only just squeezed out of being indicted before some committee on a charge of un-American activities. Toying with the Commies. Nothing was ever proved you know, so of course one is being dangerously libellous even to whisper it. But everyone knew; and I believe it cost him simply thousands of dollars in bribes and what-have-you to keep it out of the courts. We were over there just when it was boiling up, and I believe he tried to borrow off Tyson. Most embarrassing. That was why one couldn’t help wondering if Tyson hadn’t rather naughtily refused to play, and so Junior decided to put the screw on. Very filial, if he did.’

  Dany frowned and looked bewildered: ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Nigel, and I think you’d better stop.’

  ‘Blackmail, darling,’ explained Nigel, ignoring the request. ‘Is that his little game? Has he involved the Daughter-of-the-House in some complicated piece of jiggery-pokery, and is he now telling Step-pop to pay up, or he spills it all to the Press? Tyson’s really very well supplied with stocks and shares and lovely money, and quite devoted to your charming Mum. He’d probably pay and pay. Could it be that, I wonder?’

  ‘No, it couldn’t!’ said Dany stormily. ‘I’ve never heard such ridiculous nonsense! There isn’t a word of truth in it!’

  ‘Now, now, now, darling____! Don’t get so excitable. You’re as bad as Eduardo. Oh well — it was just an idea. But one couldn’t help wondering if he didn’t have some little game on. One is sorry for him, of course. The family name teetering on the edge of the dustbin, the family fortune down the drain, and the glamorous girl-friend (who between you and me must have got wind of the cash deficiency!) abandoning ship for a coroneted Italian cutter. But what is he here for? Just what is he after? That’s what I’d like to know. Call me inquisitive if you like — and how right you will be!’

  Dany said stiffly: ‘You know quite well why he is here.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re wrong. I don’t. Has he joined the G-men or the F.B.I. perhaps? Is he, if one
may be forgiven a winsome little pun, playing International M.I. Fives? Americans are becoming painfully Middle-East conscious these days. They can think of nothing else but Spheres of Influence and Rocket Bases. (And women of course — there’s still simply nothing like a dame! Especially if she looks like Elf!) Or is he playing some sly little game of his own, and if so, what?’

  Dany’s hands tightened on the chair-back and she said furiously: ‘You know perfectly well why he came here! He came to discuss the publication of the Emory Frost papers — and — and for a honeymoon in Zanzibar.’

  ‘That’s what he says. But the whole question of the Frost papers was discussed ad nauseam with his dear Papa less than six months ago in the States. Of course they hadn’t been released from the lock-up then, and they might not have been worth publishing. But a couple of letters would have settled the matter. He wasn’t invited here, you know. He suggested it himself. And who ever heard of anyone combining a honeymoon with business? Even the most dollar-adoring Yank would shy like a steer at that one. They may worship cash (and who doesn’t!) but they are also simply saturated with sentiment about such things as Momma and Marriage Bells. That’s what makes it all so intriguing. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘No!’ said Dany stormily. ‘I can’t. I think you’ve just got a — a fertile imagination.’

  ‘My dear, too right! And at the moment it is positively fecund. The wildest conjectures came sprouting out of the soil as soon as I saw the dear boy turning up here minus a honeymoon and plus the phoniest American secretary that it would be possible to conceive in a month of provincial repertory matinees! One was instantly reminded of Crippen.’

  ‘Crippen? Why? How…’ Dany suddenly discovered that the chair-back was an inadequate support, and releasing it, sat down in the chair instead with a feeling that her legs were made of something that closely resembled half-cooked macaroni.

  ‘Surely you’ve heard of Dr Crippen, dear? He brought off quite a tidy little murder, and then lost his head and skipped out of the country with his secretary, who was faintly disguised as a boy. It popped into my head almost as soon as I saw you. Well, perhaps not quite as soon as that, but as soon as I began to feel curious. I confess I was thrilled. Delicious shivers all up and down the spine! I said to myself “Now is he escaping from the law, and where has he buried the body of poor Ada — the real one?” But that of course was before I’d read the papers.’