“Which suggests that it didn’t actually come from France,” summarized Finch. Singh came back outside and Finch ordered him to examine Waters’ truck.
Jade considered the implication of Finch’s last statement. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to forge a foreign postmark and leave the package with the other mails to be put in the Dunburys’ Nairobi box. The dried mud may have been intended to make the items appear sepulchral, and to obscure prints and make the forged postmark less easy to spot.
“Do you think that Scotland Yard has a set of prints for Mathers Pellyn?”
Finch frowned. “And just who in the blazes might that be?”
“He was the lover of Olivia Lilith Worthy, and very likely part of her criminal enterprise. Possibly her partner.”
“Explain.”
Jade took a deep breath and collected her thoughts. “You know that I drove an ambulance during the war.” Finch nodded. “Near the end, a pilot crashed. He died in my arms.”
“Yes, David Worthy,” said Finch. “This I recall hearing. And I presume this Olivia Lilith Worthy is a relative.”
“His mother. She hates me, but not just for David’s death. When I came to Africa to find David’s brother and uncover who killed their father, I came away with the impression that Lilith had ordered her husband’s death. It meant she had an ally here. Later I found that she was using another man to smuggle guns and German East African gold into Abyssinia.”
“This Pellyn chap?”
“No. But I stopped that scheme. Then in Morocco, she came after me, kidnapping my mother. She had yet another man helping her move drugs and Roman coins. That time Sam and I captured her.”
“Then she’s in prison.”
“Yes, but these gifts from the dead could come only from her. Who else would have David’s bloody scarf? His effects were all sent home to her.”
“So you suspect another one of her agents is doing the work for her?”
Jade nodded. “It could be anyone, but Lord Dunbury discovered that she’d had a Cornish lover at one time, a scoundrel who fled to Africa.”
“Mathers Pellyn.”
“Correct.”
Finch uncrossed his arms and shook his head. “Sounds entirely too implausible. The woman’s in prison. You’ve broken up her schemes.”
Jade looked up sharply. “We don’t know that. I have no idea what else she might have her fingers in.” Jade counted off: “Morocco, Abyssinia, Kenya. I heard Mr. Hamilton from the post office tell of a woman who was an overlord in the Belgian Congo. She cut off the ears of her laborers and branded them. That sounds like something she’d do, and she’s always been after gold. Pellyn may have been a part of it.”
The sound of an engine interrupted Jade. She looked down the street and recognized Harry’s truck. “It’s Hascombe,” she said. “He appears to be in a hurry, too.”
Harry parked beside Waters’ truck, narrowly missing constable Singh’s backside, which protruded from the open door. “I found something,” Hascombe shouted.
He jumped out of his vehicle and, once again, Jade was taken by how quickly he moved. When the Africans had christened him Bwana Nyati, they’d meant more than the buffalo’s bulk, power, and temper. They’d had in mind the animal’s surprising agility.
“After everyone left,” Harry said, “Nakuru and I took some time to reattach the winch in the back of the truck. I decided I didn’t care to be that close to the shore in case our scaly friend returned while we were working, so I drove forward a few hundred yards. That’s when Nakuru picked up this.” He held up an unfired .455 Webley cartridge. “I had parked right on top of it.”
“I don’t remember a Webley in Waters’ truck,” said Jade.
“No,” said Finch, “but this cartridge could have been dropped by anyone at any time.”
“Inspector, quickly. Come!” Singh had extracted himself from the truck’s interior. His white-gloved right hand was clenched around something. “I was probing deep into the cushions, Inspector. I found this.” He opened his hand, revealing a small gold nugget the size of a cherry pit.
Finch took it, turned it over in his hands, then cast a sidewise glance at Jade.
“Another unbelievable coincidence, right?” she said. Jade walked over to Waters’ truck. She squatted down in front of the grillwork and examined the bumpers. “I just noticed these when Harry pulled up. There are fresh scratch marks on the front of this truck,” she said.
Finch and Hascombe joined her. “Vehicles are scratched all the time in the bush,” said Hascombe. “Look at mine.”
“I think Miss del Cameron has something in mind besides rocks and sapling trees, am I correct?”
“Yes,” said Jade. “And there were similar marks on the rear bumper of that vehicle you pulled from the Getathuru River. They could easily match up.”
“Are you suggesting that this man,” Harry said, as he pointed to Waters’ truck, “was responsible for pushing Stockton’s car into the river?”
Jade nodded.
Harry took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “If that’s the case, the bastard got what he deserved when the croc took him.”
“Unless someone got him before the croc did,” said Jade.
“What?” Harry plopped his hat back on his head. “Have you been out without your hat on, Jade? The sun’s baked your pretty little head.”
“I’m afraid she’s quite serious, Hascombe,” said Finch. “Constable Singh,” he called. “See if these scratches align with the marks on the rear of that car from the river.”
Singh nodded and began taking measurements.
“All right,” said Hascombe. “Supposing that this man did push the other into the river. That still doesn’t mean that his death was anything other than an animal attack. People get careless when they fish.”
“It’s entirely possible, Hascombe,” said Finch, “but I can’t overlook any possibility at present.”
“Just who is this Waters?” asked Jade. “What do you know about him?” She addressed the question to both Finch and Harry.
“He’s been in the colony for years, but I’ve never met him,” said Harry. “A Cockney, I think. Heard his name mentioned once or twice as a man who was always looking for the next opportunity. But I never heard his name in connection with killing anyone.”
“I sent Miller to run down where Waters lived,” said Finch. “Seeing if he has a flat above a shop or a room at one of the clubs. If you have any ideas, Hascombe—”
“If I heard, I never paid it any mind, Inspector. But he seemed to be a man who moved about a great deal.”
“I think Mr. Holly knew him,” Jade added. “He claims to have a share in that gold mine. And if Stockton and Waters were partners . . .” She let the thought trail off. Finch didn’t need her help and she shouldn’t be getting involved.
Miller returned from his assignment, saluted the inspector, and gave Harry a wide berth. “I found his digs, Inspector. Asked around at the usual watering holes for chaps like him.”
“And . . . ?” prodded Finch.
“And one fellow thought he lived south of the rail yards.”
“That’s where some of the natives live,” said Harry. “The ones reestablished after the war.”
“Actually, this was a bit east of it, closer to the warehouses,” said Miller. “Some Boer has huts he hires out. I hurried back as soon as I heard this, knowing you’d want to inspect the digs yourself.”
“The scratches match on the two automobiles,” said Singh, consulting his notebook.
Finch nodded. “We’ll go now, before his landlord has a chance to clear out his things.” He nodded to Jade and Harry. “Thank you both for your help.”
“Wait,” said Jade. “I’m coming with you.”
Finch took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Miss del Cameron, as much as I value your mind, I think you’ve been through quite enough recently. You should go home and rest.”
“I saw the scratches on
the bumper, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but—”
“Inspector, it’s possible that this man has some connection to those . . .” She glanced at Harry and thought how to proceed without involving him. “Those parcels I’ve received. I might see something that relates to them.”
“What parcels?” asked Harry.
“I suppose I can’t deny that,” said Finch.
“What parcels?” repeated Harry, edging closer to Jade.
“Very well, you may come along, Miss del Cameron, but you must promise to follow my orders. Touch nothing.”
“I agree,” said Jade.
“What bloody parcels?!” roared Harry.
“You haven’t told your friend?” asked Finch.
“Harry’s . . .” Jade noticed the look of intent concern in Harry’s face and stopped herself before finishing the sentence. “No, I hadn’t.”
“Jade,” Harry said, his voice a taut bowstring about to snap. “What’s going on?”
“Miss del Cameron has received some unpleasant letters purporting to be from her dead fiancé.”
Harry’s eyes opened wide. “Featherstone’s dead?”
His simple question hit Jade like a heavy blow to the chest, driving the wind from her lungs. She blanched and took a step back to steady herself. “No. David Worthy. The pilot I knew in the war. The one who gave me that odd ring.”
Harry stepped in closer and put a protective arm around Jade. “Sorry, Jade. Maybe the inspector’s right. Maybe you should go home. I can take you there.”
Jade wriggled free of his embrace. “I’m going with the inspector.”
Harry clamped his hat tighter on his head. “Then I’m going with Jade.”
WATERS’ HUT WAS ACTUALLY one of several two-room wood-and-tin shanties that had been tossed together from discarded lumber and crates. Consequently the sides were a hodgepodge of labels and advertisements. Allenburys’ Foods—Your Baby’s Welfare butted against ads for Pears soap and twelve-bore cartridges. Each hut had one window, generally cracked, and was roofed over in galvanized tin. A common latrine and another shack labeled Bath stood farther apart from the hovels.
The owner, an old South African named Hartesveldt, seemed glad to see Finch. “Is gut you come. I complain that man Waters leave without notice.”
“Didn’t pay you, huh?” asked Harry.
Hartesveldt spat on the ground. “Pay before he get room like everyone else. Like he has time before. But this time, he bring damned noisy parrot. All day it talk. All night it talk. Other men complain at me. I feed dat bird and give it water, but I tink maybe I wring dat bird’s neck and eat it if Waters not come back soon.”
“Waters is dead,” said Finch. “We’ll take the bird with us after we examine his rooms.”
Hartesveldt produced a big skeleton key and unlocked the door to Waters’ shack. Finch stood in the doorway first, surveying everything while Jade waited outside, Harry in close attendance. From inside came a shrill voice, repeating again and again:
“Salt! Pile in! Pile in!”
“I can see why the other tenants don’t care for that bird,” said Harry. “The least it could do is say something else.”
“Leopold’s an ass!” squawked the bird.
“Happy now?” asked Jade.
“Sorry about that Featherstone comment, Jade,” said Harry. “I’m sure you must be hurt by his abandoning you.” Jade didn’t reply. She was watching Finch, waiting for her chance to enter. “I own,” he continued, “I never would have expected it. The blasted man always stuck to you like a drowning man to a life preserver.”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you, Harry. Please.”
“Fine. I can respect that. But what’s this about letters from that Worthy chap?”
“Let it be, Harry.”
He placed one hand gently on her arm and turned her towards him.
“No, I won’t. Something’s amiss. I can see it in your face. This could be serious. You need all the allies you can get. . . .” He paused and hung his head. “Even if you don’t want them.”
“Ah, Harry, knock it off. Blast it. It’s not that I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. It complicates matters.”
“Then I’ll keep my mouth shut about it, Jade, and my eyes and ears open. But someone’s playing at a cruel game here, and when I find him, I’m going to rip his ruddy limbs off.”
“Miss del Cameron,” called Finch, “you may step inside, if you please, but don’t touch anything. Miller has gloves. Tell him what you want to see.”
Jade slipped in the door, leaving Harry to cool his heels outside. Finch stood inside the doorway with Constable Miller beside a narrow bed with a thin mattress atop what appeared to be a rough, wire framework. A wispy veil of mosquito netting hung from a crossbeam under the tin roof. A three-feet-tall post with a perch stood in one corner next to an upended crate. Two bowls sat on the crate and a large gray parrot occupied the perch. The room was nearly devoid of creature comforts. Smells filled the void: stale sweat, cigarettes, spilled gin, and bird droppings.
“If he hadn’t died at the river, living in here would have killed him for certain,” said Jade. Every time she took a breath, she nearly choked.
“Miller, see if that window opens,” said Finch.
“Right, sir.” Miller undid the window latch and tried to swing it open. “It won’t budge, sir. Possibly painted shut outside.”
Harry bullied his way through the open doorframe and strode quickly to the window. He shoved Miller out of the way. “Let a man do that.” He beat his fist all around the framework, loosening it. On the last punch, the window frame flew open, slamming back into the outside wall. The glass shattered and the frame rebounded with only a few shards remaining.
“Well, at least Jade has some air,” Harry said.
“Pile in. Salt,” squawked the bird.
“Thanks, Harry,” Jade said dryly as he went back outside.
Finch pointed to a stack of wooden crates that served as shelves. “One set of clothes, nothing in the pockets. Some tins of beef, a shaving kit, burlap bag of seeds and nuts.”
“For the bird, I suppose. No papers?” asked Jade.
“Not that we’ve found so far, but we haven’t looked everywhere.”
Finch jerked his thumb to the bed and Miller went to it. At a nod from the inspector, Miller flipped the mattress over and onto the floor. When it hit, it released a cloud of dust and mold. Jade coughed again. The only thing that kept her from leaving was the sight of a bundle of papers and paper money that had been secreted between the frame mesh and the mattress.
Finch picked up the papers and untied the string that bound them together. “Maps.”
“Maps? Of where?” asked Jade, waving away the dust.
Finch flipped through the pages. “Appears to be the Belgian Congo.”
“Pile in! Pile in! Leopold’s an ass!”
“That would explain the bird,” said Harry. “That gray parrot is from the Congo, if I’m not mistaken.” When the others looked at him for explanation, he added, “I once took some naturalists on a collecting safari to the lakes. All they talked about was birds.”
“You said that Waters was known for looking for opportunities,” said Finch. “If that’s the case, he may have been scouting about in the Congo for gold before looking up north.” He retied the maps and motioned for Miller to replace the mattress.
“We could ask at the land office. See if he staked a claim up north,” said Jade.
Both Finch and Harry turned to her, shaking their heads.
“We?” asked Finch. “Your part is done, Miss del Cameron. I’ve seen nothing here that connects Waters to those packages you’ve received and, as you haven’t indicated anything to the contrary, neither have you. Thank you for your help, but I must insist that you forget about all this.”
“The inspector’s right, Jade,” said Harry. “I’ll take you home.”
Jade had little choice b
ut to agree. She’d ridden here with Finch, Harry trailing in his truck. She’d never catch a rickshaw or taxi in this part of town.
“And one of you take that bird with you,” said Finch.
“It’s all yours, Jade,” said Harry. “I don’t want it.”
Jade looked at the parrot, preening itself on its perch. “Biscuit will want to eat it.”
“Salt! Salt! Salt!”
“Biscuit has better taste than that,” said Harry.
CHAPTER 10
Crocodiles are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” Their eyes, nose,
and ear holes perch atop their heads, enabling them to stay
nearly submerged and unseen but seeing. It’s as if they invented
a primitive periscope. And they are quick learners, too.
—The Traveler
WEDNESDAY’S ISSUE OF THE STANDARD bore a full column elaborating on Mr. Waters’ untimely demise. A second page contained photographs of the abandoned truck, Harry aiming his rifle at the water, and the croc’s head visible from the emerging spray of water. The article was followed by another on crocodiles in general and the numerous native deaths attributed to them. Thursday’s issue added that a .455 Webley cartridge had been found lodged in Mr. Waters’ rib and that his right ear was missing.
Thursday’s issue of the Leader spent a full column on Mr. Waters’ possible partnership in a mysterious gold mine with the late Mr. Stockton. A second column speculated on the unlikely coincidence that Jade had discovered both of the recently deceased bodies. By Thursday afternoon, the deaths were the talk of Nairobi, capping all other discussions, including the more recent cases of plague in the Indian district and Lady Northey’s latest charitable tea.
“At least the reporter didn’t put your photograph in there, Jade,” said Beverly. “That reporter from the Leader actually took Emily to lunch to probe for information. Luckily my sister knew very little to tell. Imagine the cheek!”
They were seated on the Dunburys’ veranda, an hour before the Girl Guide safari meeting. Alice Merrywether cooed happily in her perambulator, sucking on her big toe, which she’d managed to fit into her mouth. Biscuit snoozed at Jade’s feet, his head resting on his forepaws.
The Crocodile's Last Embrace Page 11