by John Ukah
My mind immediately went to Ayuba. His full name was Ayuba Baba Jogodo. He could be A.B.J or just A.J. Maria had mentioned his name in her hypothetical story. He had been here when the girl was hanged. He had his position and status as a married man to protect. And he was definitely making enough money to give =N=50,000.00 to a girl.
The spare keys to all the rooms were also in his possession, so he had access to her room, even when she was sleeping at night. It was all so simple. All I had to do now was confirm that the handwriting on the letters was his.
I locked my door and went downstairs. The policemen were still hanging around, watching everyone and everything with eagle eyes. I went to the bar, behind which I knew Ayuba kept his records. His wife was the one there.
“Good day, Amina.” I said, taking a stool.
“Good day, Mr. Simpson,” she replied, without her usual warmth.
“I hope this murder won’t affect business here?” I asked.
“Ah, it will,” she replied. “So many policemen around. We will probably have to close the Lodge. People will be afraid to stay here, now.”
“Terrible,’ I said, tapping my fingers on the bar top and thinking quickly. “Amina, is it possible for me to see the names of the guests who were here the last time I came? There is a name I am trying to remember, but I just can’t seem to recall it.”
“Of course,” she said and went over to where Ayuba kept the books. She brought the worn register to me.
As she watched me, I quickly opened the register to the date of my last visit to the Lodge. All the names were there, including that of Fati Madu. But I was in for a surprise. The handwriting in the letters I had taken from Maria's room, did not match the one in the register! They were both extremely different. Ayuba's writing was bold and slanted to the left. The handwriting on the letters, was in a faint hand and slanted to the right. Or could it be that Ayuba had two different handwritings? One for business, the other for romance?
“That poor girl,” said Amina.
“Which poor girl?” I asked.
“That Fati Madu girl who killed herself. Her name is just below yours.”
“Oh, yes,” I said and indeed her name was below mine on the register. The funny thing was that I could not even remember the girl’s face. I found that strange because I am pretty good at remembering names and faces. I told Amina that I could not remember what the girl looked like.
“I think I remember her giving me one of her photographs,” said Amina, thoughtfully. “Let me check,” she said, as she left the bar and went inside through the back door. She soon came back with a picture. “Yes, she did,” she said, handing it to me.
Fati Madu had been a beautiful girl. I wondered why I had not noticed her. She looked happy in the picture.
“The morning of the day she died, I remember she had spilled salt on the table. I warned her it would bring misfortune. You spill salt and you get a bad day. It brings disarray and even death. It is like finding a bat in the house. I also told her the best way to avoid bad luck was to take a pinch of the salt with her right hand and throw it over her left shoulder. I guess she did not,” said Amina. I was staring quietly at the picture she gave me; I wasn't about to encourage her superstition.
“Can I have this for a short while?” I asked. She looked surprised at the request.
“Yes, you can,” she said, but I could see that she was wondering what I wanted to do with it. I had decided to make some enquiries with the picture. I got off the stool and headed for the main door.
“And where do you think you are going?” asked one of the plain-clothes policemen sitting in the lounge. In my haste to crack the case, I had completely forgotten about them.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m on my way out.”
“Nobody is leaving this Lodge,” he said. He was a burly fellow, who was about my height. His face was mean, his eyes as hard as granite. His voice sounded like rumbling thunder. He did not look like someone to mess with.
“I have a private matter that I have to attend to,” I explained to him. “It is very urgent.”
“It will have to wait,” said Mean Face. “Until the DPO comes.”
“Well, then, I guess I have no choice but to wait,” I said, stalling. Could I escape their notice by going through one of the windows? But there were others hanging around outside and such a move might be misconstrued, resulting in grave consequences.
But I also knew that when the DPO came, the wrong person would probably be arrested. And the murderer would go scot-free.
“You can send out a letter. We will drop it for you,” said Mean Face. “Someone just gave us this envelope to take somewhere for him.” And he waved a brown addressed envelope in my face. The handwriting on the envelope caught my attention.
“Can I see that?” I asked, stretching out my hand. Mean Face hesitated, before handing me the envelope.
“I’m not going to eat or open it.” I told him, as he watched me suspiciously.
The handwriting in the letters was the exact match of that on the envelope.
“Who gave you this?” I asked casually, although my pulse was racing. Mean Face told me and the case cracked wide open. Everything fell into place.
“Thanks,” I said. The pieces of the puzzle were now in their rightful place, and things were a bit clearer than before. Yet, in some ways, they were even more confusing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE WRONG ARREST
It seemed he had descended on the Lodge with the entire Nigerian Police Force. I looked through the door of the lounge to see fully armed and combat-ready policemen spilling out of several police vans with blaring sirens. They also came with some Armoured Personnel Carriers, while a couple of helicopters hovered above. They surrounded the Lodge and took vantage positions. They swarmed all over the place, like bees in black body armour.
“Has the Third World War started?” I asked the DPO, as he led the charge into the lounge.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” he laughed with deep satisfaction.“Very funny, Mr. Simpson, very funny! But I believe that it was a human being who once said that anything worth doing is worth doing well?” And he laughed again, showing me his tobacco and kolanut-stained teeth.
Then, he turned to his men, his laughter ending abruptly. “You, you and you! Go to Room 11 upstairs and escort the occupant down here. If he escapes, believe me, your careers in the Nigerian Police Force are over!”
Three of the policemen who had come in with him, detached themselves from the others and marched upstairs with their guns cocked. I felt sorry for Nagoth.
“I hope none of them went out?”the DPO asked Mean Face.
“None,” confirmed Mean Face.
“Good. The lab test results are here with me and I have discovered the murderer. It was so simple. He has a very rare blood type and it matched that found underneath the fingernails of the deceased.”
“There is no chance of a mistake?” I asked.
“Mistake? No chance at all!” thundered the DPO angrily. “I don’t make mistakes!” He turned to the bar where Amina still stood, just as the three policemen he had sent upstairs, returned with Nagoth.
“Ring the bell; I want everyone to gather here, right now!”
Amina rang the bell used for calling guests whenever it was mealtime.
“Sit down, sit down,” said the DPO, grinning in self-satisfaction as the other guests began trooping into the lounge. He waved a folded piece of paper in front of our faces. “This is the result we have been waiting for. I told you I was going to unravel this case and I have done it! The lab test has revealed that the murderer is Nagoth Ali, the renowned artist. He had been an intimate friend of the deceased and for reasons best known to him for now, which of course, he will reveal to me under interrogation, he killed her.”
Nobody said anything; the guests were too busy staring at Nagoth in shock. He looked indifferent.
“I’m now placing him under arrest!” announced the DPO.
“I’ve
a right to make a phone call,” said Nagoth.
“You don’t have any right, Mr. Ali, except I say so. Fortunately, I’m feeling very generous today, so you can make your call,” the smiling DPO said.
Nagoth went over to the phone placed on the bar top. He dialled a number and spoke for some minutes. I presumed he was calling a lawyer. He needed a good one.
“Is there anything else you want, Mr. Ali?” asked the DPO, who seemed to be enjoying himself. “Perhaps, a Cuban cigar? Or a chilled bottle of beer? Some exotic vintage wine? Ah, a beautiful woman with an hour-glass figure?”
And he laughed heartily. At a signal from him, handcuffs were placed on Nagoth, who turned to look at me. He hardly spared a glance for the other guests, whose eyes already bore silent condemnation.
“Please, Mr. Simpson,” he said as he was led away.
“I’ll do my best,” I replied. I turned to look at the person who I now suspected to be the murderer. He was looking at Nagoth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He suddenly turned his head and looked at me … like he knew I had been watching him.
“That’s a surprise,” he said. “I never suspected that Nagoth was capable of killing a fellow human being.”
“We are all capable of it,” said John. “Given the motive and opportunity. You may later call it murder, manslaughter or self-defence, but we are all potential killers … if gravely provoked or prompted by survival instinct.”
Surprisingly, Mrs. Marshall did not say anything. She was the first to get up and go to her room. She never said a word to anybody, even as everyone else discussed Nagoth’s arrest.
The Lodge was now free of armed policemen. Only three of them still hung around. But they were not disturbing anyone or restricting movement any longer. Philip had decided to go ahead and get tested.
I decided to travel out of Cross River State, to pay a quick visit to a church in a nearby State. Armed with Fati Madu’s photograph, I went to the Holy Love Chapel. I had actually not been heeding the biblical injunction not to forsake the gathering of the saints lately, but I needed to visit the church now to aid my own investigation.
It was a Saturday, so I was surprised to see that the place was a beehive of activities. The church was an architectural masterpiece. It was a beautiful imposing structure, painted with yellow. In the front of the building were life-size pictures of scenes of the Crucifixion, and the Last Supper. Beautiful patterns were made with some exotic flowers at the entrance, where some flashy cars were parked.
Choir practice was in progress in one section of the church, and the rehearsal of a play was taking place in another. It seemed like the church was preparing for an event.
“Hello!” I called to a young man, as he dashed out through the main door.
“Hello,” he said, looking like he was in one hell of a hurry.
“Slow down, man,” I said holding him by his shoulder. “I’m looking for somebody.”
“Who?” he asked, looking up into my eyes. He was a sturdy fellow of about 19. He had a very aggressive and an impatient manner. I showed him the picture of Fati Madu.
“You know her?” he asked me looking excited.
I thought I was supposed to be doing the questioning.
“Yes, I know her,” I replied. “Do you know her?”
“Of course I know her,” he replied, as if he thought I was silly for asking such a question.
“Where is she now?” he asked me.
“A long way from here,” I replied. “Tell me about her.”
“Well, she came to the church during one revival meeting and gave her life to Christ, that evening. She said she had no parents and close relations, and asked for any form of assistance from the church. People helped her in ways they could. About 10 months ago, she left for her hometown, saying that she would be back. But that was the last that anybody has saw or heard of her.”
“Nobody made any attempt to look for her?” I asked.
“But where will they start from? She didn’t give the name of her hometown.”
“Wasn’t she close to any member of the church?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” replied the young man. “She was close to Sister Rachel and Brother Akuma, the Assistant Pastor. He felt her disappearance the most. He had taken Sister Danladi very close and did his best to help her. He was really pained, when he came back from his journey and heard that she had vanished like that.”
“Who is Sister Danladi?” I asked in surprise.
“Binta Danladi, of course,” he said, “I thought you said you knew her?”
“Oh, I knew her by another name,” I said.
“And you say she has gone far away?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well, you had better tell the Head Pastor,” he suggested. “People still worry about her.”
“Who is the Head Pastor?” I asked.
“He is Rev. Dr. Evangelist Prophet Godspower.”
“Okay, I’ll have to see him some other time, I have to run somewhere now. You can give the message to him for me,” I said and thanked him.
“What’s your own name?” I asked.
“Nweke,” he replied “I’m the son of the Head Pastor.”
“I’m Simpson,” I said. “Tell your dad to keep the gospel, alive and kicking.”
With that, I made the return trip to Obudu.
Back in my room at the Lodge, I paced the floor, pondering everything, with my hands deep in my trouser pockets.
I now believed I knew the killer's identity, as well as his motives for the murder. But I still had to prove it with hard evidence. That the handwriting in the letters belonged to the killer, did not actually prove anything. But I also suspected that he must have left some sign that I had to find. But where was it? What was it?
I sat down and brought the killer into sharp focus, in my mind’s eye. I thought about his personality and where he was likely to make a mistake. His little oddities, his habits, his traces, signs. Then, I remembered something.
“One cannot always tell age by stature,” Mrs. Marshall had said.
“Some people are young in stature but old in iniquity,” Tonye had responded and some of us had laughed at his choice of words.
“I must put that down in my diary,” Willie had said. “It sounds profound.”
“I’m glad I look my age,” had been Philip's comment. “You wouldn’t ask me to carry your bags would you now, Mr. Simpson?” he had laughed. And I had agreed that I would not.
It was in that morning's conversation that I saw a glimmer of hope to pin the killer. I left my room and went downstairs. There was no-one in the lounge, but Ayuba was standing behind the bar polishing the glasses without his usual vigour. He seemed to be miles away. I took one of the stools.
“How is Wahimda doing?” I asked him.
“She’s doing much better from what I heard. The hospital is still carrying out toxicology tests.”
“Where are the others?” I asked, nodding towards the empty lounge.
“Willie and Tonye went out separately, some time ago. I think Philip went to the gym. Mrs. Marshall is sitting under the shade of those trees behind. John is the only one, who is in his room,” replied Ayuba, without even pausing his polishing. He raised one of the glasses and inspected it. He seemed satisfied with the shine and put it back.
“Do you have any painkiller, Ayuba?” I asked, placing my palm on my forehead. “I’m having a terrible headache”.
“No problem, now,” said Ayuba. “I’ll get you some tablets.” And he left the bar through the back door.
I immediately vaulted over the bar top and landed on the other side. I went to his desk and pulled open the top drawer. Inside, I found what I wanted. I hastily sorted through the spare keys and found the one fixed with the number tag I required. I shut the drawer and put the key in my pocket, then I jumped over the bar top again and sat on my stool.
When Ayuba came back with the tablets, he found me with my head in my hands and my
face contorted in false agony. He handed me some white tablets in a sachet.
“Thanks,” I said, getting off the stool. “I’ll just go to my room and take it. Then, I’ll have a rest.”
“That’s just what you need,” said Ayuba, looking at me with concern. I noticed that he had removed the plaster from his cheek. Some coincidence!
I went back upstairs, but I did not go to my room. Instead, I used the key I had obtained, to open the door to the room of the suspect. I entered quietly.
Picture frames and posters with brilliant colours, mostly of a religious nature, adorned the walls. I did not know how much time I had, so I quickly went to work. I pulled at the drawers of his desk, but they refused to budge. I tried not to swear out loud. I went over to the wardrobe, which was built into the wall. I searched through his clothes for keys, but I found none. Yet, as I searched through the pockets, I heard keys jangling.