by M. M. Kaye
Tyson said: ‘Now don’t go trying to sit up. Much better to lie still. Get some brandy into her.’
‘I think Mr Holden gave her some,’ said Gussie.
‘Nonsense! How could he? She wasn’t conscious. Here, Dany____’
Dany attempted a feeble protest, but to no avail, and Tyson, having dealt efficiently with the matter, laid her back on the pillows and said bracingly: ‘Now you’ll feel better!’
‘Do you, baby?’ inquired Lorraine anxiously, holding both her hands. ‘Lash has taken one of the cars in to fetch a doctor and the police and medicines and things, and they’ll be here soon, and then you’ll be all right.’
Dany said: ‘I’m all right now. Where’s Larry? He saved me.’
‘I know, darling. Bless him! If it hadn’t been for him____ Oh, don’t let’s think of it. It’s too awful!’
‘It was Nigel.’
‘Yes, darling. We know.’
‘Ought to have known from the beginning,’ growled Tyson, sitting down moodily on the end of her bed. ‘No one else could have possibly known every dam’ thing there was to be known. I suppose he took the letters off Abdurahman and said he’d post ’em. And he’d met old Honeywood, so he thought it would be quite easy. Turn up just before you, get the letter and then shoot him. And while you were being held up and questioned he’d be off and away.’
‘But how?’ said Gussie. ‘How could he possibly be in England? He was in Kenya!’
Tyson said: ‘Obviously he flew out. If you’re in that camp, nothing is too difficult.’
‘In what camp? What are you talking about?’
‘The Reds, of course. Dowling is being a bit cagey about it, but it’s obvious that the police, or M.I.5, or some of those cloak-and-dagger boys, had a line on him. And on this Zanzibar business.’
‘What Zanzibar business?’
‘An under-cover revolutionary movement that has recently been started in this island. Dowling says that Nigel’s always been in it up to his neck. He’s one of the really fervent kind, and those are always more dangerous than the ones who are merely after the cash rewards. He was behind Jembe’s party: working to turn the island into a hot little Soviet stronghold. Get rid of British influence, then the Sultan, start a “Democratic” republic — and up with the red flag! And the next step would have been to slap an iron curtain round it, and use it as a spring-board for all sorts of merry Russian ballets. But they needed money to buy votes and supporters and get the thing really moving, and when that paper of old Emory’s turned up it seemed they’d got it.’
‘But they hadn’t got it!’ protested Gussie.
‘Don’t be unintelligent, Gussie! They meant to get it. They thought it was more or less in the bag. All they had to do was to get that envelope off Honeywood. And since Nigel was the obvious person to get it, they arranged to send him home and get him back again — presumably by means of some flourishing and very well organized under-cover route. And then Dany spoilt the whole show by jumping the gun.’
Gussie said: ‘It’s all very confusing. And I still don’t understand what this Jembe was doing in England, anyway.’
‘At a guess, because the Reds have never learnt to trust one another a yard, and I imagine that he was sent to keep an eye on Nigel. But Nigel failed to get the goods off Honeywood, so he put Jembe on to trying to find it — that is the supposition, anyway — and to planting that gun and pinching her passport for good measure. To ensure that the police would be kept busy suspecting her for a bit, so that she’d probably end by posting off the letter.’
‘Too silly,’ said Lorraine. ‘Once he knew she had it, he ought to have just let her bring it out with her, and found some way of getting it off her here.’
‘Ah, but he couldn’t travel out with her — and Jembe could! Nigel would have had to nip back to Kenya in order to meet the plane at Nairobi, and I imagine he didn’t trust Jembe. Probably thought that if Jembe got his hooks on it, while on his own, he’d stick to it and leave the Revolution to chase itself round the block. Dowling says that Jembe was obviously trailing Dany too, and so knew quite well who she was, and it seems that either he or Nigel had another crack at getting the letter in Nairobi. As a result of which, that blasted young idiot, Lash, got the wind up and swiped it.’
‘Why?’ croaked Dany.
‘Oh, hullo kid. You feeling better? Have some more brandy,’ said Tyson. ‘Do you good.’
‘Do you really think she ought to, darling? inquired Lorraine anxiously.
‘Why not? Look how much better she’s looking already. Drink it up, child.’
Dany drank, blinked, and said: ‘Why did Lash take it?’
‘Because he’s an interfering, impertinent, insolent young son-of-a____ Well, let it go. He didn’t like the set-up and thought it was a dangerous thing for you to have. Thought you’d be safer without it.’
‘Why didn’t … he … give it … you,’ said Dany slowly and carefully.
‘Says he wanted to know a hell of a lot more about things before he did. Didn’t trust me or anyone else with a sum like that at stake. Blast his impertinence!’
Gussie said in a hard voice: ‘And Millicent? Why does Mr Dowling think that Nigel did that?’
‘Probably because he was afraid that she really might have spotted him. He was officially supposed to be in Kenya, so what had he been doing mucking about in Kent? He’d actually read The House of Shade, which is more than I have — I’ve never been able to struggle further than page six — so getting rid of Millicent was easy.’
‘And I suppose he killed Jembe too,’ said Gussie with a shudder.
‘Probably. If he talks, we may know. However, Dowling appears to have landed him such a crack that there’s an even chance he won’t. Can’t think why he couldn’t have used the siphon. Sheer waste of gin.’
‘Tyson, how can you!’ said Lorraine, releasing her daughter’s hands and straightening up indignantly. ‘Why, it saved Dany’s life!’
‘She’d have been saved quite as effectively by soda water,’ said Tyson. ‘Or better still, a bullet! Can’t think why he didn’t shoot.’
‘Because of Dany, of course! He was afraid he’d hit her. He told you that.’
‘So he did. Well, just as well he was there. Very lucky he saw her slip away.’
‘Did he know that it was Nigel all the time?’ inquired Gussie.
‘I don’t think so. But he had a few shrewd suspicions. It seems that parts of Kent were fairly misty on the morning that Honeywood was killed, and one or two trains ran late in consequence. Dowling says that Nigel mentioned that mist twice; though as it was only localized, and there was no mention of it on the news or in the papers, how did he know a thing like that — unless he was there? But Dowling didn’t know that Nigel was hoping to needle Dany into leading him to Emory’s letter, and he very nearly didn’t get there in time because____Oh, there you are, Dowling. How’s the jaw?’
‘Swell,’ said Larry Dowling bitterly, ‘— if I may borrow an Americanism from the donor. By this time tomorrow I shan’t even be able to talk.’
‘Or see out of your left eye,’ said Tyson. ‘The boy would appear to pack a punishing left. But I still can’t see why he should have thought____’
‘Neither can I,’ said Larry. ‘Considering that I happen to be a loving husband and an indulgent father. How are you feeling, Miss Ashton?’
‘Drunk,’ said Dany. ‘You all will keep on giving me brandy and whisky and things.’
She held out her hands to him. ‘I’m sorry about your face, Larry. And — and thank you so very much. For everything.’
Her voice broke and her eyes filled with weak tears, and Larry sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hands in his.
‘You haven’t anything to thank me for. If I’d had the sense to look where I was going I’d have got that pro-Red so-and-so before he started any rough stuff. But because I didn’t, I expect your head is a good deal worse than my jaw; so you’re not really even with m
e yet!’
Gussie, who had been standing by the window, said: ‘Here are the cars. This will be the police. Or the doctor.’
‘And Holden,’ said Larry Dowling, hastily releasing Dany and rising to his feet: ‘Time I went. I’m not taking any chances on being found holding your hands again and getting another crack on the jaw. That boy is too impetuous by half. See you tomorrow.’
He went out, leaving the door ajar behind him, and they heard footsteps running up the stairs and then Lash’s voice on the verandah outside. ‘You here again?’
‘And very well chaperoned,’ said Larry, ‘so you can keep your hands in your pockets! Have you brought the doctor?’
‘Of course. I also gave him your letter.’
‘Thanks. Where is he now?’
‘Ministering to that murderous louse, who has apparently surfaced — worse luck!’
‘Good: I’ll send him up to see Miss Ashton as soon as he’s finished down there.’
Larry’s footsteps retreated and Dany sat up dizzily as the door opened and Lash came in.
He paid no attention at all to Lorraine, Gussie or Tyson, but came straight across to the bed and took Dany into his arms.
‘Don’t mind us,’ remarked Tyson caustically.
‘I don’t,’ said Lash, ‘— much.’
He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Lorraine, and said: ‘The doc will be up here as soon as he’s through with Ponting, and after that, if I know doctors, he’ll throw me out on my ear. So I’d be deeply obliged if you’d all scram.’
‘Of course, dear,’ said Lorraine. ‘Come on Gussie. Tyson____’ The door closed behind them.
Dany said: ‘Lash, you aren’t a G-man, are you? I thought you might be — or a murderer — because you’d taken that letter, and Nigel said____ And I knew I ought to hate you if you were a murderer, but I couldn’t — and I’m so glad you’re not a G-man! I didn’t want you to be, and I’m so sorry. Lash, I’m sorry — so sorry____’
Lash said: ‘All right, honey, all right. You’re sorry. For Pete’s sake, how much brandy did they give you?’
‘Lots,’ said Dany. ‘Lots and lots and lots. Firs’ Larry, then you, then Tyson … It’s good for you. I shouldn’t have listened to Nigel. Lash, you will forgive me, won’t you? because I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t … I couldn’t bear it____’
‘This is just about where we came in,’ said Lash. ‘Only it was me last time. It’s a judgement on me! Darling, you’re plastered! All right, I’ll forgive you — but after this if I ever catch you drinking anything stronger than a chocolate-soda, so help me, I’ll take a strap to you! Darling — my darling — my darling…’
* * *
The African police-constable on guard saluted smartly and ushered Mr Dowling into a small ground-floor room leading off the central courtyard, where the window shutters were further reinforced by iron grille work and the doors were stout. A room that was, oddly enough, the self-same one to which Tyson’s grandfather, Rory Frost, had brought his share of Sultan Saïd’s treasure for temporary safe-keeping on a wild, rainy night over ninety-five years ago. No one now alive was aware of this; yet, strangely, a superstition survived that the room was, for some obscure reason, a place of ill-omen: which perhaps accounted for the fact that until an hour or so ago it has been kept locked and unfurnished.
Now, however, having been hastily denuded of dust and innumerable spiders-webs, it contained a heavy brass bedstead, a couple of cane armchairs loosely covered in faded chintz, a bedside table, and an ornate, marble-topped Victorian wash-hand-stand complete with an imposing array of flower-patterned china utensils. It also contained — in addition to the doctor — Nigel Ponting and Mr Cardew: the former lying prone upon the bed with his right wrist securely handcuffed to a brass bedpost, while the latter, who had arrived at the House of Shade in response to an urgent telephone call from Larry Dowling, occupied one of the cane chairs, pad and pencil at the ready.
Mr Dowling noted with approval that the doctor had wasted no time. The wet towel that some amateur hand had hastily wound about the secretary’s head, in the manner of an untidy turban, had been removed, together with his coat, and a shirt sleeve that had been rolled back disclosed the mark of a recent injection on Nigel’s bare arm. An empty syringe lay on the bedside table, and Nigel’s eyes were open. He was muttering to himself, and watching someone whom he could see, but the others could not, moving about the room.
‘Is it going to work, Doc?’ inquired Superintendent Cardew in an undertone.
‘I don’t know,’ returned the doctor shortly. ‘I’ve never had occasion to use it before. And, if it does, I don’t guarantee that you’ll get the truth. It’s more likely to be a load of old rubbish or else pure fantasy. And, what’s more, I’m not at all sure that this business isn’t illegal and that I won’t wind up finding myself struck off the Medical Register!’
‘Nonsense. Besides, if anyone hears of it — and they won’t — you can always say that you were only carrying out the orders of the police, and put the blame on us. We’re used to that.’
‘And how!’ endorsed Larry feelingly. Adding a trifle anxiously that he hoped that the quality and volume of the sound was going to improve, because at present he could not make out a word that the prisoner was saying.
‘Give him time,’ urged the doctor, busy replacing the discarded turban with an elaborate and highly professional bandage. ‘You can’t expect that stuff to act with the speed of light.’
Larry sighed, and pulling up the vacant chair, seated himself gingerly in its creaking depths, produced his own notebook and pencil, and sat waiting to take down anything relevant that the prisoner might say.
Mr Ponting continued to mutter unintelligibly and the doctor, having completed the bandage to his satisfaction and felt his patient’s pulse again, picked up the syringe and wrapped it in a square of surgical gauze. He was stowing it away in his bag with some ostentation — as if to forestall any request from the guardians of the law for a further injection of the drug he had been asked to administer — when Nigel Ponting began to talk: aloud and clearly…
‘… There is no proof,’ declared Nigel, addressing the unseen person whose movements he had been watching, and who was now apparently standing at the foot of the bed. ‘I’ve been too clever for them. There isn’t an atom of proof, and they’ll never think of looking under Tyson’s floorboards for that duplicate key … Right under his nose! And of course for any serious work I always took care to wear gloves — that pair of silk ones to match my skin that Don had specially made for me in Cairo. They’ve proved invaluable. There’ll be no prints on the stair mechanism, or anywhere else. They teach you to cover your tracks, as you know. They’re very insistent about that. Old Honeywood never noticed the gloves even though it was mid morning. Though of course it was a grey day, and I have to admit that the mist was a bonus — one might almost call it providential — if one believed in Providence, which luckily I don’t …
‘A pity it wasn’t thicker … If it had been, that Bates woman would never have recognized me — silly bitch! I never forget a face! That really was bad luck. Hers not mine. Tiresome, beady-eyed old busy-body! I certainly didn’t remember hers. But of course after that I had to get rid of her as quickly as possible … I must tell you about that. It was laughably easy and I really do pride myself on it … It was a stroke of genius. All I had to do was type an urgent little note on the Ashton girl’s typewriter, push it under Bates’s door, set the stair trap and wait for her to fall into it. Which of course she did — plunk!
‘… Yes. Terrible about Jembe — I don’t know how I’m going to manage without him. I wonder who did it? We shall have to find out. I suppose the police will have searched his luggage. Let’s hope he was careful: his type so often aren’t … too conceited. It’s our weakest link. Oh, well, I shall have to find a replacement. It shouldn’t be difficult — three million will buy almost anything!… We could swing the elections for a fraction of
that. It’s after we’ve done it that the trouble will start. I know we need islands and that this one is the best one to begin on … but the snag is going to be the Zanzibaris. They’re too damned easy-going. They’ll have to be educated … taught to kill. And to hate. That’s the important thing. Hate … to hate … to hate. And after that…’
The harsh, unfamiliar voice, that contained no trace of those high-pitched and carefully cultivated fluting tones that had been part of a successful disguise for so long, talked on and on, while the horrified doctor (who had been more than half inclined to take all he had been told about Ponting with a large helping of salt) frowned and fussed and muttered oaths that were certainly not Hippocratic, and Messrs Cardew and Dowling scribbled swiftly, filling page after page of their official notebooks. Jotting down names that would later be identified and their owners traced, together with dates and details that were to prove damning …
When at last the hoarse voice slurred to a stop, the doctor — having declared that the performance was over and that the prisoner would now sleep for several hours — departed upstairs to see what he could do for Miss Ashton, and Mr Cardew mopped his brow with a pocket handkerchief and announced that he would be jiggered.
‘If you’d told me that, and I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I wouldn’t have believed a word of it,’ confessed Mr Cardew. ‘And, whatever the Doc’s reservations are about using that drug, there was nothing phoney about that performance! If ever anything came straight from the horse’s mouth, that did! But I didn’t follow that stuff about the three million that’s going to give Jembe’s dupes a walk-over in the elections, and turn Zanzibar into a Communist paradise and a base for Russian spy-rockets and atom-subs and all the rest of it. Whose three million?’
‘Tyson’s grandfather’s,’ said Larry. ‘The old reprobate reportedly stashed away roughly that amount as his share of Sultan Saïd’s treasure, which he and a subsequent Sultan, Majid, somehow got their hooks on. And all this murder and mayhem was apparently sparked off by a map that shows where he hid it. It seems to have turned into a nasty adult version of that popular children’s party game, “Hunt-the-slipper”, and to date three people — if one can count “the thin man” as one of them — have been murdered for the sake of that map.’