Height of Day: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 5

by Desmond Cory

  Demetrius concluded his examination swiftly, spun on his heel and shouted a long question at the arc of watching natives; there was an immediate chorus of agreement. He turned to Johnny again, wiping his sweaty hands on the legs of his shorts.

  “It is as the first witness explained it, sir. Those who seized Kigiriye found this in his waistbelt.”

  Johnny looked at the object that Demetrius had handed to him. It was a wrist-watch that Johnny recognised. It had once been Raikes’.

  “White man’s juju,” said Demetrius, by way of explanation.

  “Worth many wives, many cattle. That is why he killed Tentigi.”

  “But Tentigi couldn’t have stolen this,” said Johnny, weighing it in his hand. “He couldn’t have—”

  “Somebody could have given it to him, sir.”

  “To keep his mouth shut; yes, very likely. Well, the method certainly succeeded.” Johnny slipped the watch into his pocket of his bush shirt. “There’s not much doubt about this, is there?”

  “None whatsoever, sir.”

  “Very well. As these Masai are all of the same age-group, there can’t be a headman here. Too bad. Tell the prisoner he can pick his own laibon, and whoever he picks will order the execution according to tribal custom. Whatever that is,” said Johnny, “and I hope it’s nothing too revolting.”

  Demetrius nodded. “I think that is the best way,” he said; and turned to speak to the imprisoned Kigiriye. Johnny expected no reply, or at best a brief one; to his surprise, Kigiriye expressed himself at considerable length. When he had finished, Demetrius pulled at his ear and stood on one leg; a sure sign of embarrassment.

  “What did he say?” asked Johnny curiously.

  “Sir, he wishes his punishment to be decreed by the husband of Lumiri.”

  “Lumiri? Very well. And who is Lumiri?”

  Demetrius’ shaven head moved ever so slightly in Madrid’s direction.

  “I see,” said Johnny grimly. “A humorist.”

  “He is not a humorist, sir. He means you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But … No.” Johnny stared at Kirigiye, who met his gaze with a courteous interest. “It’s impossible.”

  “But you have spoken, sir. You have given your judgement. Now you must stick to your word.”

  Johnny looked at Demetrius very hard. There could be no doubting his sincerity. He looked back at Kigiriye; nodded once, briefly; then turned to face Madrid and Schneider. Neither of them seemed particularly alarmed.

  “You heard what Demetrius said?”

  Madrid shook her head. “I don’t speak French. But I heard what Kigiriye said. I think you’re taking the best way out.”

  “You do?” said Johnny, perplexed.

  “Yes. They must settle this among themselves. Which one of them is Lumiri’s husband?”

  Johnny smiled tightly. “I’ve got news for you,” he said. “you’re Lumiri. And I seem to have been promoted beyond my desserts.”

  “You mean you’re …?” Madrid’s mouth dropped open. “Oh no.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m going to have to kill that boy, and I’m not sure how the others are going to take it. So a good time is going to be had by all.”

  “Fedora,” said Schneider curtly. “For the Lord’s sake don’t do it. There’s more than twenty of them, and only three of us. Wait till the others get back.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Johnny. He walked a few paces away, and inhaled deeply from his cigarette before grinding it underfoot. He was deeply conscious of the eyes of the Masai fixed unwinkingly upon him from the left; of the eyes of the Bushmen fixed on him from the right. It was the Bushmen that he feared the most; unlike the Masai, they had only the sketchiest idea of what was going on. In a few minutes’ time, they were going to see a white man kill a black man, and what they would decide to do about it was anybody’s guess. But Johnny imagined that they wouldn’t like it at all.

  Nor would the Masai, particularly. They were one of the most warlike tribes in Africa, after all; and they had seen blood that very afternoon. Kigiriye’s crime was a tribal crime; for a white man to administer the punishment would be to deprive that punishment of justice. Kigiriye knew that very well; he was banking on it, the cunning devil.

  And if only because of that, he had to die. If one murder went unpunished, then other murders would follow. Johnny knew well enough what he had to do; nevertheless, he would have given a great deal to be safely assured of the outcome.

  Schneider and the girl were walking, very slowly, away towards the shadow of the trees. The silence in which they moved was broken by another tingling crack from the hills to the north; van Kuyp seemed to be dynamiting with great enthusiasm … Confound him. Johnny heard the low, shuddering wail that went up from the Bushmen, a wail of superstitious awe. The devils had been provoked, all right.

  He waited until Madrid had reached the protection of the bush and had turned again to face him. Then he pushed his thumbs inside his belt and walked off, circumnavigating the arch of the squatting Masai, passing within a yard of each one in turn. The sun glinted wickedly on the blades of their knives, placed hilt outwards on the grass between their straddled knees; Johnny raised his head and concentrated on the man at the end of the line, on the two men holding him, on the tall Kiyogo standing to one side and on Demetrius, standing silently before the group.

  He stopped; he and Kigiriye looked at one another. The brown eyes of the black man now showed a hint of speculation; the grey eyes of the white man were thoughtful but unclouded. “Let him go,” said Fedora.

  He motioned the guards back; they released Kigiriye’s arms and retired swiftly. The Masai flexed his muscles cautiously, and then stood still; Johnny as motionless as though carved out of wood.

  “… Kigiriye, I know your name. It is said that you have killed your brother. What have you to say?”

  Kigiriye spoke briefly. Johnny listened as Demetrius, in a level voice, translated his words.

  “Yes. He now admits it is true.”

  “You must tell me, Kigiriye, why you have done this thing.”

  Kigiriye spoke at greater length. “… He says, sir, that the river-devils filled his mind with greed, so, that he desired the white man’s juju that Tentigi owned. He believed that it would protect him from the murogi, the magic of the devils.”

  “Because you have killed your brother,” said Johnny dispassionately, “I, who am also your brother, must now kill you. What have you to say?”

  Demetrius spoke; Kigiriye replied. “He says, sir, that this may not be. You are white and he is black; therefore you are not his brother but his father, and it will bring shame on you to kill him.”

  “Kigiriye,” said Johnny without hesitation, “what you have done brings shame to both white and black. When we meet again, there shall be neither white skins nor black and we shall be truly brothers. But in this world I shall live and you shall shortly die. That is all I have to say.”

  Demetrius translated in a swift, broken rattle of words.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny saw Kiyogo’s hand move downwards to the knife at his belt; Kigiriye’s eyes moved away from Demetrius and met his gaze squarely.

  “… He hears your orders, sir.”

  “My orders are that he shall walk towards the river and not look behind him.”

  Demetrius spoke, for the last time. This time Kigiriye did not look towards him, but kept his eyes fixed irrevocably on Johnny’s. Demetrius finished speaking; and without another word Kigiriye began to walk. Johnny saw many things at once; the broad back retreating from him, the waiting circle of brown, hostile bodies, the gleam of the knife in Kiyogo’s hand, Madrid’s brown face in the shades, the sunlight that came up from the clearing in waves of golden heat. He timed Kigiriye’s steps carefully; one, two, three, four; the Colt barrel flickered in the sun like the head of a striking snake, the butt kicked in his hand, the spout of deadly flame was lost from visibility in the ruthless ligh
t. The bushes around re-echoed the crash of the shot; Kigiriye’s knees gave instantaneously and he pitched inertly to the ground. Blood darkened the woolly hair at the back of his head.

  There was a second’s silence; then a long, unbelieving, ominous growl from the assembled natives. Johnny turned like a flash and looked at Kiyogo, whose knife arm was already tensed; their eyes met over an infinity of space, Johnny spun the pistol, caught it by the barrel; held it out to the other man.

  “Clean it. Clean it properly. Bring it to me when you’ve finished.”

  There was an appalling silence; this time, Demetrius had forgotten to translate. The pistol, held in that brown and glistening hand, watched Fedora as he turned his back and walked off towards the river. He went as he had come, passing deliberately in front of each of the squatting Masai; the swords no longer lay on the grass, but winked and glittered in their owners’ hands. Johnny’s back crawled as he went, but he forced himself to maintain his even stride; Kigiriye had done it, and he could do it too. But he was praying that the end, if it came, would be from an expertly-wielded knife rather than from an inaccurately-placed bullet. The pistol was the white man’s weapon; the knife would mean death for him, the bullet for the whole of the Expedition …

  He passed the last of the crouching Masai; a sudden thin wail of desolation arose from the ranks of the Bushmen. It was the dirge, not the call to kill; the muscles of Johnny’s mouth relaxed imperceptibly. He walked on.

  He reached the river, and looked at it, and breathed deeply. The hippo had gone away.

  All was quiet.

  8

  “I GUESS you acted for the best,” said van Kuyp, throwing another log on to the fire. “If we don’t all get murdered in our beds some time in the next three days, then things ought to quieten down. All we can do is keep our fingers crossed.”

  Johnny was drinking a bowl of soup – rather noisily – and made no reply. Madrid sat next to him, sleepy-eyed, the bones of her face fine-drawn by the flickering glow of the fire; Schneider was watching the heart of the flames with a meditative expression. “… What worries me,” said van Kuyp, sinking back on to his haunches, “is where the Professor and Banfield can have got to. I left them nosing about on the breccia half-an-hour before nightfall; they can’t still be up there.”

  “What are the prospects like, Van?” asked Madrid drowsily.

  “Eh?” Van Kuyp stared at her. “Oh – very promising. Very promising indeed. Much as we expected. The place is thick with fossil deposits; there’s no doubt about that.”

  “You mean you found some right away?”

  “Oh heavens, yes. We blasted along the most obvious line of stratification, and uncovered … oh, dozens. One of the most prolific deposits I’ve ever seen – almost as prolific as the Lias Epsilon in Germany; certainly better than Taungs.”

  Johnny licked his spoon and rattled it back on to his empty plate. “What sort of stuff are you getting up? Giant lizards, and suchlike?”

  “No, no. The comparison with the Lias Epsilon doesn’t hold in that direction; the deposits here are late Tertiary and Pleistocene, not Jurassic.” Johnny blinked. “Raven hasn’t undertaken any detailed examination of the specimens, of course, but some are unmistakable. A skull of procavia obermayerse, for example; and parapapio – any amount of parapapio. It’s very promising. But the associations are naturally very uncertain, at the moment.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Away to the right, around the main camp fire, there came a faint sound of squabbling from the huddled Bushmen; a smell of burning fat drifted unpleasantly through the air. Van Kuyp squared his shoulders, as though repressing a shudder.

  “Say, how’s our other victim? Feller the panther chewed up?”

  “He seems to be all right,” said Johnny, and spat inelegantly into the fire. “I took a look at him just before sundown. Wounds healing up all right, but there’s a lot of pus I don’t much like the look of.”

  “Yes?” said van Kuyp uneasily; and after a pause, “Pity about poor Raikes. It’s going to be tough, getting along without him. You really need a doctor, in these parts.”

  “Considering we’ve had three deaths in two days, an undertaker might be an even better idea.”

  Van Kuyp looked at Johnny and opened his mouth sharply; then changed his mind and said something different. “You don’t have to be so hard about it, Fedora. We know it wasn’t fun for you.”

  “It wasn’t fun for any of us,” said Schneider briefly.

  “Still … if it means that those boys are going to keep their knives out of each other’s innards for a while, then I guess it’s an ill wind – and all that.” Van Kuyp peered suddenly over his shoulder. “I wonder where on earth that crazy guy Raven can be?”

  “He’ll be all right,” said Madrid lazily.

  “Oh, sure. But I thought I heard—”

  “You did,” said Schneider. “They’re coming through the bush now.”

  “Well, thank the Lord for that. Give that soup a stir, will you, Fedora? – they’ll be pretty hungry.”

  Johnny leaned forward to take the pannikin from the fire; he was listening intently to the noises coming from the jungle to the north … The swishing of leaves, the startled scream of a parakeet disturbed from its roosting-place, the occasional loud snap of a twig; this against the everlasting hum of the gyrating mosquitoes and blue-wing flies. The sounds of progress drew nearer, and eventually the party moved into the most distant arc of the firelight; Raven, Banfield, and two natives, the latter carrying between them a heavy specimen-case.

  “So here you are,” said van Kuyp, with mingled relief and irritation. “We were wondering where you’d got to.”

  Raven surveyed the group around the fire with considerable scorn. “Where I’d got to?” he said. “I’ve been out in the field, of course. I came out here to work, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “Sure. But you can’t work in the dark.”

  “I’d be pretty much in the dark if I relied on you,” said Raven, and laughed heartily at this pungent witticism. “Madrid, tell these boys to put down the case and shemozzle, will you? … I feel like something to eat.”

  “So do I,” said Banfield, emerging from behind him.

  “Shall we take the case …?”

  “No, no, leave it there. It won’t run away. And look here, Van, you old devil,” said Raven, who appeared to be in high good humour. “Take a look at this, if it’s not asking too much. And then tell me we haven’t struck oil.”

  He tossed something from his left hand to his right and then threw it playfully towards van Kuyp. Van Kuyp fielded it successfully; glanced down at it. “Holy Moses,” he said, impressed. “Where did you find this?”

  “A wow, isn’t it?” Raven squatted down by the fire beside Fedora, his hands on his knees, patently pleased at the impression he had made. “Confirms our ideas with a vengeance, doesn’t it? Ladle me out some of that hell-brew, Fedora, if you’ll be so good.”

  “But where did you find it?”

  “Within a couple of feet of that notochoerus we uncovered. I photographed the spot all right; good clear shot, I hope. I want you to take a look at the place tomorrow, first thing. I’d like your opinion on the stratification.”

  “Boy, oh boy. I’ll be there with bells on. There’s not a doubt about it, is there?”

  “No doubt at all,” said Raven firmly. “Why should there be. It parallels exactly the eoliths at Lake Victoria and Lake Eyasi.”

  Johnny, sitting next to van Kuyp, could see quite clearly the object that had caused so much concern. It was a piece of stone, heavily chipped and white in colour, a rough triangle in shape. “Just what is it?” he asked.

  “It’s an eolith, Fedora,” explained van Kuyp kindly. “A hand-axe, or coup de poing. Men fought with these things, thousands of years ago. And this, I don’t mind telling you, is the hell of a fine specimen.”

  “Look at the bulb of percussion,” said Raven. “Levalloisian, I should say. Clearly
a type.”

  “The material’s obsidian, anyway.”

  “Oh yes. That stone was brought downstream from the mountains, there’s no two ways about it; it’s a dime to a dollar there’s natural obsidian there. We’re going to find the remnants of a Lake Culture up there in the North, Van; I’ll take my oath for it.”

  “Oh, well now. That’s going a bit too far.”

  “Too far be damned,” said Raven, speaking indistinctly through a mouthful of soup.

  “We’ll need a lot more evidence yet.”

  “We’ll find it,” said Raven. “Don’t worry. We’ll find it. I’m going to be up at that breccia before dawn tomorrow, and you’d better be there too. ’Cos all our theories are going to work out – you mark my words.”

  Johnny met Schneider’s eye across the flames; Schneider was smiling gently. Fedora knew the reason for his secret amusement; he knew that the metaphorical bug had bitten the other members of the Expedition with a sudden ferocity, so that for the next few days they would be deaf and blind to all but the hunting of these mysterious fossils. He and Schneider could leave when they chose now, and no questions would be asked. Now that the search for prehistoric man was so emphatically opened, the hunt for a living and breathing man could begin.

  Johnny lowered his head in an imperceptible nod, and assisted Raven to another helping of soup.

  Fedora dreamt that night that he was standing in a dark cave, surrounded by piles of whitened bones. A tall brown figure was marching steadily towards the light and away from him; he fired again and again at the retreating back, but the figure kept on walking. When it turned round, its face was that of Professor Raven … “This cave is a million and more years old,” somebody said. “These are the bones of your brothers whom you have killed.” “Natural obsidian,” replied Raven, his mouth yawning ludicrously as he spoke. “There’s natural obsidian here, and other things as well. Yes, yes.” He threw back his head and laughed; his mouth became another cave and Johnny walked boldly into it; this cave had walls of bone and he knew that he was inside a dead man’s skull buried deep in the African sands.