The Leopard's Prey

by Suzanne Arruda

  “Thanks, Wayne,” said Daley. “You and Frank go in the truck with the cat.” He nodded toward the Dodge truck, now surrounded by the Kikuyu men who stood guard over the leopard, singing a song about a brave warrior. “I’ll take the Africans back with me.”

  Jade and her boss walked toward a hill where they’d left the other vehicles, another Dodge truck and Jade’s 1915 Indian Big Twin motorcycle, which she’d purchased after she sold the French Panhard she’d acquired in Morocco that spring. After unloading the leopard at the Nairobi warehouse, the men would drive on to Alwyn Chalmers’ farm and catch what little sleep they could before the next night’s work began.

  A soft noise in front of them attracted Jade’s attention. “Someone’s coming.” She made out two figures. One was slender and walked with the erect carriage and sure step of youth. The other clung to him, a hunched form tottering with age.

  “Jambo,” Jade called in greeting.

  “Jambo, Simba Jike,” said the man, calling Jade by her Swahili name of “lioness.” He was a Wakamba, judging by his filed teeth. Probably from the nearby village. “This woman is my mother. She says she must speak to you.”

  Jade turned her attention to the old woman clutching her son’s arm. She wore a leather apron stained red with soil and clutched a monkey fur cloak around her back and shoulders. Her shaved head and gnarled hands showed the liver spots of great age, but what most startled Jade were her dead eyes. Milky white, they managed to lock onto Jade’s own green eyes as though the crone could still see.

  “Mother, what did you want?” asked Jade in Swahili. Her son translated.

  Immediately the woman spoke two short sentences with a strength and volume that belied her great age and bent figure. Jade’s Wakamba was rudimentary at best, since she’d spent more time recently studying Kikuyu and a smattering of Maasai, but she did catch the word for danger, which she made a point of learning in any language.

  “My mother says that you will face danger and must beware. She says you must always watch for the madness in the eyes of a killer.”

  Jade felt a cold chill ripple down her spine. She looked into the old woman’s blind eyes, but in her mind, all she saw was the leopard’s hateful stare.

  MADELINE THOMPSON SAT astride a sturdy little brown Somali pony called Tea and adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat so it hid less of her face. Tea danced nervously underneath her, his hind muscles twitching and his tail whipping at the pesky flies that landed on his withers. One must have bitten him, because he bucked slightly. Maddy shifted sideways and made a grab for the saddle, her hat slipping.

  “Do you know what to do, Maddy?” asked her husband, Neville. He sat on a very placid white pony that appeared to be dozing. “As soon as I send that stallion past you, you race after him and drive him the rest of the way into the pen beside the mares.”

  Madeline fidgeted with her hat again. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Neville. You should be on Tea, and I should be riding Crumpet. Tea is too nervous for me.”

  “Crumpet’s not fast enough to chase a wild zebra, Maddy. The beast would be past her before she even thought about running. Now just be certain to whoop and yell a great deal and wave your hat around. I’ll be right behind you . . . er . . . as soon as I can get Crumpet moving.”

  Madeline yanked her hat off her head and muttered under her breath about obstinate men and silly schemes. Two hairpins fell and released a shoulder-length strand of brown hair streaked with gray. Before she could do anything about her hair, she heard galloping hoofbeats coming up behind her. Neville shouted, “Now, Maddy!” and she dug her heels into her mount’s side. Tea bolted forward just as the zebra raced past her.

  “I can do this,” she murmured to herself. She swung her hat in a wide circle around her head and she hung on to the reins for dear life. “Whoop! Hyah!” she shouted. Tea responded to the challenge as though this were race week and he was running for the cup.

  Just as Maddy thought the zebra was about to go into the fenced area next to a few mares from his harem, a gold-and-black blur raced past her pony’s legs, heading straight for the zebra. Tea reared and Maddy pitched backward onto the hard ground. The zebra spun around to defend itself against this new enemy, and Madeline appeared to be as good a target for his anger as any.

  “Roll, Maddy!” yelled Neville, as he slid off Crumpet’s back.

  Still stunned, Maddy looked up in time to see a pair of black hooves waving above her and a large, black-spotted cheetah beside her. She screamed and rolled away as the hooves crashed down less than a foot from her midsection. The cat ignored Madeline and nipped instead at the zebra’s hind legs. In the mayhem of snarling, pounding, snorting, and high-pitched whinnies, no one heard the purring roar of an approaching motorcycle.

  Neville ran up beside his wife and pulled her to her feet as a lasso landed around the zebra stallion’s thick neck and brushlike mane. The noose tightened, and the zebra turned his fury toward this newest indignity. He jerked his head down and bucked, but the lasso held, mainly because the other end of the rope was looped around a post.

  “Cut!” shouted a man standing fifty feet away beside a tripod and a motion picture camera. Sam Featherstone, former American WWI flying ace turned would-be filmmaker, looked up from the lens and grinned at the Thompsons. “That was fantastic!”

  “I could use a little help here,” called Jade as she gripped the rope she’d thrown and pulled the still angry zebra toward the pen. “Biscuit,” she called to her pet cheetah, “stop annoying the zebra.” The slender cat, no longer interested in his prey, turned his attention to Madeline.

  Sam loped toward Jade as fast as his prosthetic right leg allowed. “It’s a good thing you showed up when you did, Jade,” he said. He took hold of the rope and pulled the zebra the rest of the way into the pen. Then he carefully slipped the noose from the zebra’s neck. “I don’t know how Biscuit got out of the house. I thought we had him shut up tight.”

  “Biscuit can open doors,” said Jade. “Maddy, are you all right?”

  Madeline leaned against her husband, who held her close and massaged her backside. “I’ve bruised my nether regions, thanks to your silly cat.” She pushed Biscuit’s head away as he rubbed up against her legs.

  “Biscuit didn’t mean any harm,” said Jade. She motioned for the cheetah to come to her, and rested her left hand on his back when he stood beside her. “He just likes to play chase, too.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you showed up when you did,” said Neville. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Jade as she pulled off her driving goggles. “Now, will someone tell me what in thunder that was all about? Sam, I thought you were filming the life of the coffee farmer, not a Hoot Gibson Western.”

  “I am,” said Sam, handing her the rope. After casting a sidelong glance to see if the Thompsons were watching, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I already filmed the recent fly harvest,” he said, referring to the year’s second, smaller coffee crop. “But I don’t want my picture to be humdrum. I want it to tell a story about the intrepid farmers who are struggling and need money to pay off their loans. It was Neville’s idea actually. He was talking about some of his past plans to raise money—”

  “Like herding crocodiles,” chimed in Maddy, who’d joined them with her husband.

  “I never did do that, Madeline,” said Neville. “I only thought about it.”

  Sam coughed to interrupt the family squabble. “Once you told us you were working for that zoological company, Jade, Neville took a closer look at their advertisement and decided to bring in a few zebra for them. I couldn’t film our actual capture, so I restaged it.”

  Maddy snorted. “The real capture was hardly worth filming. Neville and Sam baited a path to the pen with a trail of hay. The mares came in on their own, and their lord and master followed. The action we just staged was a complete fiction.”

  Jade laughed. “And you know about fiction, right, Maddy?”


  Madeline’s chin shot up an inch. “I’ll have you know, Jade, that my novels about you and your daring adventures are very true to life. Stalking Death did very well, and Ivory Blood promises to be just as successful.”

  “At least you weren’t in Morocco with me,” muttered Jade. “I’d hate to think what you would make out of that trip.”

  This time both Sam and Neville coughed.

  “What?” asked Jade.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” said Neville.

  Jade spun toward Sam. “Sam? Did you tell Maddy about what happened in Morocco?”

  Sam pretended to be interested in the zebra and unable to hear her question. “You must admit, this zebra chase and capture does make for a good piece of film. That was some roping, Jade. But where did you get the lariat?”

  “It belongs to the zoological company,” said Jade. “I’m borrowing it as part of my equipment.”

  “Speaking of captures, how did yours go, Jade?” asked Sam. “Did you get the leopard?”

  “Yes,” she said. She didn’t offer any details and kept her focus on carefully coiling the rope and attaching it to one of the panniers on her motorcycle.

  “I understood the brute wasn’t going for the bait,” said Neville. “How ever did you manage to lure him into that cage?”

  “We used different bait.” Jade switched the topic before anyone could inquire further. “How are you going to use my roping of Maddy’s zebra, Sam? I hope I didn’t ruin your scene.”

  “Not at all. I’ll shoot Neville acting out your part, Jade, and cut him into the footage. It will be a dramatic scene of a husband rescuing his brave wife. In fact, Biscuit’s sudden entry gave me another idea.” Both Madeline and Neville raised their eyebrows, looking at him with doubtful frowns. “It would make a wonderful scene if we used your pet lion, Percy, to stage a lion attack.”

  Neville pulled Madeline into his arms. “Absolutely not! I forbid it. I have no idea how tame Percy is.”

  “Sam, Percy was Harry Hascombe’s pet lion,” Jade explained. Harry, who’d once kept a cattle ranch, had sold it off and taken to leading safaris. When he did, he gave his pet cats to the Thompsons to keep. Biscuit, however, had other plans. He laid claim to Jade and traveled with her now. Percy, the lion that had been raised by humans from a cub, stayed mainly in his large enclosure. Jade recalled a night on her first trip to Africa when she’d slept at Hascombe’s ranch. Even then, Percy had roared loudly to proclaim his domain when a wild lion came near, and Jade didn’t doubt that the cat would have fought for primacy if he’d had to. “I don’t think it’s safe to let Percy out. Even in play he could seriously hurt someone. He’s not tame like Biscuit.”

  As if Biscuit decided then to show them he was still free to follow his own head, he left Jade’s side and stalked over to the new coffee dryer, which had recently been unloaded out of the way under a brush arbor. He sniffed the two-hundred-gallon drum that rested on legs beside an as yet unattached motor.

  “I didn’t mean to actually have Percy attack anyone, even in play,” Sam said. “But I could disguise part of his cage to look like wild brush and film him roaring. Then I could cut to Madeline screaming and Neville firing away at nothing in particular.”

  “Why don’t I get to fire away and let Neville be the one in danger?” asked Madeline. “Maybe I could find Neville collapsed on the ground, about to be devoured, and save him.”

  “As long as you scream first,” said Sam. “There’s nothing more riveting on the screen than a woman facing horror and certain death.”

  “I suppose that would be all right,” admitted Neville, “as long as Maddy is not in any real danger. But you’d better do it soon. Percy is getting too expensive to keep. I’m going to sell him to Perkins and Daley along with the zebras.”

  Sam nodded, half listening. Already he was surveying the surroundings, picking out camera angles that would hide most of the coffee farm behind Percy’s large pen. “Are you good at screaming, Maddy?” he asked.

  Madeline had slipped free of Neville’s embrace and strolled over to the coffee dryer to see what held Biscuit’s interest. The cheetah was pawing at the large drum and making raspy cries. “Of course I can scream,” Maddy said. She let loose with a high-pitched eek.

  “That’s too weak, Maddy,” said Sam. “It needs to be bigger.”

  Jade leaned against a fence post, her arms folded across her chest, and watched the proceedings with amusement. “No one will hear it in the movie anyway.”

  “That’s why she has to act it out, too,” said Sam. “Try it, Maddy. Give me your best horrified scream.”

  Madeline, in the meantime, had opened the door to the dryer’s cylindrical drum. She dropped the door with a clanging crash, threw her hands in front of her face, and let out an ear-piercing shriek.

  “Very good, Maddy,” said Jade, clapping. “But perhaps a bit overdone.”

  Madeline turned, still screaming, and ran to Neville, burying her face against his chest. “What’s going on?” he demanded as he held his wife.

  Sam opened the dryer drum, and both he and Jade peered inside. They immediately looked away, gagging. “There’s a body in your coffee dryer, Neville,” said Jade. “Something you care to tell us about?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Many African proverbs are based on observing animals.

  Whereas, we might say, “The apple does not fall far from the tree” or

  “chip off the old block” to indicate that children often act

  like their parents, an African would say that even a small leopard

  is still called a leopard. Note the inherent warning.

  —The Traveler

  BY THE TIME Neville returned from Nairobi with Police Inspector Archibald Finch, Dr. Matthew Montgomery, and a lone constable; Madeline had regained her outward composure. She and Jade sat on folding camp chairs while Neville and Sam assisted the officials with hauling the body out of the coffee dryer. They laid the corpse on a blanket in the shade.

  “Whew!” exclaimed Sam, waving a hand in front of his nose. “He’s definitely not dry roasted.”

  “Why, that’s Martin Stokes!” exclaimed Neville once he saw the face.

  “Mr. Stokes?” asked Maddy. She jumped up and hurried to look.

  The inspector, a short, skinny man in his fifties, stopped her before she got too close. “Not for a lady to see, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Martin Stokes?” echoed Jade as she strolled over, circumventing the inspector. Biscuit followed at her heels like a dog. Unlike Madeline, Jade didn’t always respond to the dictates of authoritative men. “Is he the same Stokes as in Nairobi’s Stokes and Berryhill Store? I’ve been there many times, but I’ve never really met him.”

  “One and the same,” said Neville. “We bought that coffee dryer from him last week. He was supposed to deliver it and never did.”

  “I guess we know why,” said Jade.

  “So I went into town yesterday and brought it back myself,” Neville added.

  Madeline inhaled sharply. “My heavens,” she said, “he must have been in there already. How horrid!” She put her hands in front of her mouth.

  “His left wrist has been slashed,” said Sam.

  “It looks as if he did it to himself,” said Neville. “He’s got some sort of knife strapped to his right hand.” He stared at the fingerless leather glove, complete with a two-inch blade that jutted out near the thumb.

  “Stay back from the body, if you would please,” said Finch. “The doctor will decide how this man died, not you.”

  “A most intriguing weapon,” said Dr. Montgomery. “Have you ever seen anything like it before, Inspector?”

  “Never. Something for slaughtering livestock perhaps.”

  “It’s a corn knife,” said Sam.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Finch. “Why would anyone need a weapon like that to handle something as slender as corn?”

  Sam smiled. “I forgot. You British generally equate corn with wheat, do
n’t you? What we call corn in the States is what you call maize. This is a new American invention. I saw one for sale in my dad’s agricultural catalog on my last trip home.” He pointed to the dead man’s right hand. “You hold on to the ear with your left hand and slice it free with the knife on your right, all the while leaving your right fingers unencumbered.”

  “Most ingenious,” said the doctor, squatting beside the corpse. “And it does appear from the blood on the knife and the size of the wrist wound that he did slice his own wrist with it. Of course,” he added as he stood up, “I shall be able to make a more certain declaration after I examine the body more closely in my office. But at this point in time, Inspector, I believe we can safely assume that Mr. Stokes committed suicide.”

  “Why?” asked Jade.

  “That’s not for me to discuss at this point,” said Finch.

  Jade saw Maddy signal her with a slight hand wave. Once she had Jade’s attention, she mouthed, Later. Jade nodded and stepped back.

  “I shall send out another one of my men to assist Constable Miller here in the task of taking in your coffee dryer to collect more evidence,” said Finch.

  Neville groaned. “Is that absolutely necessary, Inspector? Surely the constable can just crawl into it here and do whatever he needs to do.”

  Inspector Finch studied the oversized drum. “We must check for fingerprints, of course, and it is better to do that at headquarters. Miller,” he called to his underling, “just remove the door. Take it back to the station to test for prints. But photograph the prints on the drum here on site.” He turned back to the Thompsons. “Which of you opened the door and found him?”

  Madeline raised her hand. “I did.”

  “Then I raised the door and looked in,” said Sam. “Neville was next.”

  Mr. Finch peered at Sam. “I don’t believe we’ve met. You’re an American, aren’t you?”