The Idol of Mombasa

by Annamaria Alfieri

  Tears welled up in the reverend’s eyes. “You are right to call her a lady, for so she is.” He sniffled and drew out a handkerchief. Tolliver waited while Morley regained control. “She is about to have a child.” Once those words were out, he lost all control of himself.

  Tolliver stood and walked to the window, giving the missionary time to recover himself. Whatever else he was learning, he was becoming convinced that Robert Morley was not the murderer. Not of Joseph Gautura and not of Majidi. It did not seem that a missionary who could perform such an act would be so filled with remorse for having got a native woman with child. Tolliver hoped that his belief was wholly the result of a good detective’s instincts and not wishful thinking on his part.

  Morley blew his nose and then spoke. “I do not think it at all possible that my sister had anything to do with those killings. Do you have any proof that she had? Tell me she had not.”

  Tolliver retook his seat. The missionary looked wary, as if he feared that Tolliver might say yes: more evidence that he most likely had not committed the acts himself. “I do not believe so, sir. But you must see how critical it is for me to find the murderer and bring him to justice. An important Arab has been murdered at a very sensitive moment. The whole community here might explode in violence if we do not give them satisfaction in this matter. We are here to show that British justice is true justice.”

  “Dear God! What can I do?”

  A knock at the door interrupted. Morley’s mouth clamped Shut.

  “Come,” Tolliver called.

  Libazo came in and handed over Patrick’s latest report. Tolliver scanned it. “Not conclusive, but certainly allows us to draw conclusions,” he said to no one in particular.

  Robert Morley stood up and took a deep breath. “Do you know about Joseph Gautura’s kinsman Juba Osi?”

  Tolliver, distracted by the report in his hand, had to ask the missionary to repeat what he had said.

  “Joseph Gautura has…had a kinsman living here in Mombasa. An ex-slave named Juba Osi. Isn’t it possible he will know something that will lead you to the real murderer?”

  Tolliver capped his pen and laid it on the papers on the desk. “Thank you for the information about Juba Osi. I will continue my investigation,” he told Morley. “For the time being, you may go.”

  Morley looked up at Libazo, who might have been part of the woodwork for all he reacted. The missionary coughed and said, “You will not speak to Mrs. Tolliver of—”

  Tolliver held up his hand. “For now, what you have just told me need not be revealed to anyone,” he said.

  Tolliver followed Morley into the hallway. For the first time since they had met, he saw the reverend descend the stairs and leave the building without a single angry word.

  He picked up Patrick’s report and turned to Libazo. “Please send a couple of constables to find this Juba Osi right away. I am going to bring this report to D.S. Egerton in person.”

  ***

  When Tolliver reported the scientific evidence in the case to the district superintendent, he found Egerton’s response almost dismissive. “You believe then that the fingerprints tell you something important even though Patrick says they are not conclusive?”

  “Yes, sir, at least insofar as they corroborate that Majidi killed the slave. His and Libazo’s were the only fingerprints on the sheath found in his drawer. He must have put it there. Only Libazo’s and the boy’s were on the dagger itself. It is true that the boy said he wiped off the handle before he took the dagger to the brothel.” He held up the report. “Dr. Sutton says Gautura’s throat was very likely slit with just such an instrument. I suppose there could have been a third person who used the dagger after it was taken from the sheath, but it seems highly unlikely that anyone would have carried a knife that sharp all that distance to the Mission without its sheath. Taken all together, I think we can safely conclude that in actuality it was Majidi who used his dagger to slit the throat of his runaway slave. Having done that, he threw the knife into the swamp or lost it along the way, but took the sheath back and kept it for the precious stones that were in it. It’s the only scenario that explains all the facts.”

  Tolliver thought he had made the case very convincingly. He therefore could not understand why the D.S. continued to frown.

  As if he had read the question in Tolliver’s mind, Egerton explained: “Are you sure you are not trying to take the side of your father-in-law’s friend?”

  The implication of prejudice miffed Tolliver, but he held his temper and spoke respectfully. “No, sir. I mean, I am sure, sir. My conclusion has nothing to do with my family’s position. The facts point only to Majidi as the murderer of the slave.”

  “It could not have been the boy? Could he not have stolen the dagger without the sheath, wrapped it up, and carried it to the spot and…” His voice trailed off.

  Tolliver held his tongue. Egerton had not seen how skinny and small the child was, even for a nine-year-old, but evidently he understood that it was absurd to think a youngster could have reached up and slit the throat of a tall, fit adult.

  “Your sergeant found the boy trying to sell the dagger. What was one of our askaris doing in that brothel in first place? Some of these native policemen are not much more than criminals themselves, in my experience. We have caught them at all sorts of mischief. And worse.”

  Tolliver wanted to turn his body to stone as the only way to hide his outrage. How could Egerton accuse Kwai of—of he did not know what. Libazo was twice the policeman those Indian imports that Egerton considered the backbone of the force were.

  Tolliver swallowed hard. “Perhaps, sir, we should put aside my theory about the slave’s death for the time being and concentrate on finding out who killed Majidi. Perhaps when we know that, we will have a definitive answer to the other question.”

  When Egerton made no reply, Tolliver went on. “That marble cask is definitely the weapon used to kill Majidi. According to Patrick, there are two sets of prints on it. Most are Majidi’s own. The placement of the others is consistent with someone picking it up and holding it in such a way as to bash in Majidi’s head. There is only one curious thing about the prints.”

  Egerton’s curiosity was piqued. “Which is?”

  “Patrick is not sure they are a man’s fingerprints.”

  “A woman’s?” Egerton looked stunned at first, but then said, “I suppose it could be. Those Arab women are so ill-treated. One of them might have sought revenge.”

  Relieved that Egerton had not immediately leapt to suspecting Katharine Morley, Tolliver emphasized the dubious nature of the evidence. “As I said, Patrick is not sure. They could be a woman’s, but they are much more likely to be a man’s, depending on the man. One whose fingers are much smaller than the typical Englishman’s. The greatest percentage of murders, by far, are committed by men, especially the violent murders. And this one was exceptionally so.”

  Egerton stood up. Tolliver had no choice but to do the same. “Very well,” Egerton said. “You will have to pursue all possibilities. For now, I have another assignment for you. I have heard from the G.M. that he wants to say something about the murder of Majidi. I want you to go and take his statement.” He picked up a pen and took a slip of paper from a leather tray on his desk and wrote something on it. “Here is the address where he is staying. It’s the Liwali’s house. It’s at the harbor end of da Gama Road, just past the African Hotel.”

  Tolliver reached for the paper.

  Egerton held it back. “And while you are there you will not say anything to anyone about Majidi having murdered the blackie. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I won’t, sir.” It galled him that Egerton thought he needed to be reminded of such a thing.

  “Not a word,” Egerton said. “You will only stir up trouble with your theories. I will not have trouble.”

  “No, sir. You will not.”

  Egerton gave Tolliver a rather arch look but said, “Get on with it then,” and han
ded over the address.

  Tolliver read it, stuffed it into his breast pocket, and made a smart about-face. He had barely taken a step down the stairs when the question hit him. Why was Egerton sending him to take the Grand Mufti’s statement? If it was so important and delicate a matter, why wasn’t the district superintendent going himself?

  11

  On the pretext of beginning his search for Juba Osi, Kwai Libazo went to the bazaar, but once he was there, he made straight for the silk shop and Aurala Sagal. He found her actually cutting a length of fabric off a bolt and selling it to a Somali man in a white kanzu and a white embroidered hat very like the orange one the bookshop owner’s nephew had worn when he escaped from the court building.

  When the customer had taken his change and his package and left, Aurala turned her beautiful eyes on Kwai. “So, Sergeant Libazo, you have come back to visit me.” This time she did not say his name very loudly as if to warn someone behind the curtain. She seemed to be speaking just to him.

  He had tried to plan what he would say to her. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. But he did not want her to think he was just saying that because he wanted to make sex with her. He had changed his planned speech with every step he had taken on the way. There was no way to politely ask what he really wanted to know—how she felt about what she did for money, so he spoke of something else. “I have to find an man named Juba Osi.” The words fell from his lips. They made him feel stupid. She made him feel stupid. He had not ever thought he would have accepted feeling stupid. Until now.

  “Do you think he could be here?”

  “Not here, but perhaps someone in the souk can tell me where to search.”

  “Do you know what work he does?”

  “I know nothing about him except that he is a kinsman of Joseph Gautura, the one who was a household slave of Majidi.”

  At the mention of Majidi’s name, a look of terror passed through her eyes. They darted to her left and right. She turned and looked at the bookseller’s shop behind her. The door was still locked. There was a sign on the door in Arabic that Kwai could not read.

  Libazo pointed to it. “That man—” he started to say.

  “Let us not talk of all these men,” she said. She put her finger to his lips.

  Her touch overwhelmed his thoughts. He could not talk of anything. He did not care about anything but her. He took her hand in both of his and kissed it.

  She brought her lips close to his ear and whispered, “Do not speak here. Can you come inside with me?”

  He should not do so, and he knew it. He wanted her, but not in the way of men who came to a place like this. He wanted to walk down the street with her, to find her at the end of every day.

  She whispered to him again. As she leaned toward him, he caught the scent of her hair, which smelled like a fruit he had never tasted. “I want to tell you something about the dead man, but it is dangerous for me to be seen speaking it to you here.”

  He looked around. No one was near enough or taking any notice of them. Still, she was frightened of people unseen. He followed her into the silk shop, refusing even to think of the other name that men used to describe the place.

  ***

  The Liwali’s residence was in an ancient Arab building near the customs godowns on Vasco da Gama Road, across from a sadly neglected ancient cemetery. Its entrance was more attractive than the others along the narrow street, but not ostentatious. The front door was of teak carved with a cunning basket-weave pattern that was matched by the design chiseled into the stone lintel above it. Typical of buildings thereabouts, a balcony on the second floor overhung the entrance and gave the added benefit of a patch of shade for the arriving visitor. There was an old covered well across the way. Its base was a square of marble carved with vines and flowers, giving an air of ancient grace to everything around it.

  As Tolliver approached, the Liwali’s door opened before he had a chance to pull the cord for the bell. After the modest look of the façade, the elegant attire of the man who greeted him and the rich décor of the entry hall surprised him. The doorkeeper was tall and slender and sported a black beard, trimmed to a perfect point. It seemed as if all the Arab servants in Mombasa were appointed for their good looks. This one was dressed in loose white trousers and a golden silk jacket that came down to his knees; it was trimmed with silver braid and matched his fez. The inevitable dagger was tucked into his sash. He bowed and asked the blessings of Allah on Tolliver, who removed his sun helmet, bowed in turn, gave his name, and stated his business.

  “Be pleased to follow me,” the man said in English. He led Tolliver into a hallway and through to a lush interior garden that smelled of orange blossoms. A carved stone fountain in the center gave it a moist and musical atmosphere. It felt ten degrees cooler here than out in the road.

  Down another hallway, they entered a small room exquisitely tiled in floral and geometric patterns in subtle colors. There was a frieze just below its domed ceiling with writing in Arabic that went right around the room.

  The man in gold indicated a settee of ebony, upholstered in horsehair nearly as black as the wood. “Be pleased to sit and wait,” he said, before exiting through a carved sandalwood door. Tolliver was pleased to sit and wait and admire the decoration and contemplate the fact that nothing one saw from the street prepared one for the size, the opulence, the elegance of this palace.

  He was barely over being awestruck when the door opened and the Liwali himself invited him into the next room—a large salon with pure white walls, furnished with heavy, intricately carved ebony furniture like the settee Tolliver had just left, but here upholstered in red and gold. A matching carpet covered the center of the tile floor.

  The ever-courtly Grand Mufti occupied an armchair at the opposite end of the room, which was twice as long as it was wide. Like all his fellow Orientals, he wore his headgear indoors—the same conical hat he had sported on his arrival. It sat on his head like a crown. He spoke in a language Tolliver did not understand.

  The Liwali invited Tolliver to sit and explained that the Grand Mufti did not speak English but had important things to tell the British police about the death of Khalid Majidi.

  Tolliver wondered then if he could trust the Liwali to properly report what he and the Grand Mufti were saying. Since he had no choice but to comply, he felt he must have a record of what was said in English. “Do you mind if I take notes?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” the Liwali said. He snapped his fingers and signaled to an attendant standing with his arms crossed next to the door. The servant placed a small table in front of Tolliver, who opened the dispatch case he had been carrying and took out paper and pen.

  At once, a rush of words issued from the Grand Mufti. He looked at Tolliver while he spoke. He was a light-skinned man. As the little girl on the ship had said, his features were very like those in a drawing of Father Christmas, but his expression was not at all jolly. More worried and fatigued than any Santa Claus. Tolliver imagined that the long sermons he had been giving and all the events in his honor—morning, noon, and night—had exhausted the man.

  The Liwali sat near Tolliver. He was a stout man, handsome, with a gray beard, but no mustache. His most impressive feature was the brightness of his green eyes, flecked with gold, which contrasted with his dark skin. Their effect was enhanced by the green and gold of his coat, his sash, and the cloth wrapped around his head. His jewel-encrusted sword clanked against the chair as he sat down. “The Grand Mufti wants to assure the British Administration that he is aware of their care during his visit. He very much appreciates the King of England’s desire that his visit to Mombasa be a peaceful one. These are concerns that he much welcomes.”

  Tolliver wondered again why some official higher up than he had not come to this meeting. From the drift of the discourse, these were words that should have been spoken to the provincial commissioner, if not to the high commissioner himself. “His Majesty’s government is taking every care to ensure th
e Grand Mufti’s safety and comfort,” Tolliver said, feeling like a fraud of a diplomat and wishing he had been left to his duties as a minor police official.

  The Liwali responded without translating Tolliver’s message. “The Grand Mufti understands this. It is why he is speaking to the officer in charge of the investigation into the death of Khalid Majidi. He wants to tell you there is no danger at all of being any trouble because of Majidi’s death.”

  This statement stunned Tolliver. Now he was certain that he was the wrong person to be representing his country at this meeting. Not knowing what would be a proper response, he wrote down a close approximation of Liwali’s exact words, including the rather quaint English. Then he said, “I will report this to my superiors.” He started to recap his pen.

  The Liwali patted the air between them in a gesture he must have meant to be comforting. It did not quell Tolliver’s misgivings. “The Grand Mufti wants tell His Majesty’s government,” the Liwali went on, “that Khalid Majidi was not a true follower of the Holy Prophet. He was not a good man. It is not necessary for the British police to find his murderer.”

  Another stunning thing for these people to be saying. Tolliver was sure Egerton had had no idea of the gravity of the subject these men had meant to discuss. If the D.S. had had any inkling of the delicacy of the situation, he was insane not to have sent a diplomat.

  Tolliver looked at the G.M., who seemed to be following the conversation. Was he feigning an inability to speak English? He said something to the Liwali, who answered in whatever language they were using. After a brief exchange, the Liwali turned back to Tolliver. “The Grand Mufti believes it is appropriate for me to report to you that Majidi has broken British law. He did this in such a bad way, you should erase any need to investigate his murder.”