by Greg Kihn
Bobby gently removed a small metal canister from the bird’s leg. Inside the canister was a tightly rolled-up paper. Bobby carefully rolled it out and got out his pen. He wrote:
Message from Bobby. Finished our mission. Recorded Joujouka Musicians. On our way back. Clovis is sick. Needs medical help. Leaving today for Tangier. I’ll call as soon as possible. See you soon.
Gysin watched Bobby roll the message back and place it in the canister.
“How did you get the idea for that?” Gysin said.
“I read an article on the plane about Morocco’s famous racing pigeons. When I saw that the president of the local racing club was an English teenager, I paid him a visit and explained the situation to him. He was only too glad to help. There’s not much to break the boredom around here.”
“How do you get the message across the ocean?”
“Telegram,” Bobby said. “I gave the kid some cash to cover the expenditures.”
“That is totally fuckin’ brilliant!” Clovis rasped. “That’s why Dust Bin Bob is the leader of us all.”
“Hold on, let’s get out of here first,” Bobby said. “We still have a long way to go.”
Mahmoud returned with a camel driver leading a very pissed-off camel. The filthy beast spit and farted and took an instant dislike to Clovis. The camel, which had no actual name, appeared to be generally disagreeable.
Bobby helped Clovis to his feet. He howled with pain.
“My legs! They’re cramping up something fierce!”
Bobby picked him up and swung him over his shoulder. Clovis let out a howl as his legs shifted.
The camel driver and Mahmoud forced the camel to sit and held the beast steady while Mahmoud and Bobby boasted Clovis up on the camel’s back. Tears of pain streamed down Clovis’s face, but he clenched his teeth and stayed quiet. He held on for dear life as the camel slowly rose to its feet. Clovis looked down and realized he was much farther off the ground than he imagined. A fall from here would be substantial. He held on tenaciously.
The effort to get aboard the camel exhausted him, and Clovis slumped forward. Mahmoud handed Clovis a bladder bag of weak mint tea, which hydrated him slightly. They started the journey back to the Land Rover on foot.
It was the first and only camel ride in Clovis’s life. Every step was agony. Even the camel was miserable. Clovis’s head throbbed, his cramps came and went every few minutes, and his fever spiked. But he hung on. They were on their way back. Soon he would be resting in a nice clean hospital bed sipping San Pellegrino bottled water.
They found the Land Rover just exactly as they had left it. Except for a fine cover of dust, it had not been touched.
The camel driver somehow got the unhappy camel to sit so Bobby and Mahmoud could lift Clovis off. He groaned as they moved his legs; they were still cramping terribly. Bobby gently placed him in the car and gave him some more mint tea to sip.
“Won’t be long now, buddy.”
Clovis moaned.
The Land Rover started up and two hours later they drove into the ancient city of Chefchaouen. Mahmoud was able to obtain directions to the medical clinic. They welcomed Clovis and immediately put him on a IV drip and started the hydration process. Clovis sunken eyes and pale face frightened Bobby. He said a silent prayer.
One of the nurse practitioners said, “A few more hours and you might have suffered kidney failure. You’re lucky your friends brought you here.”
“These men are my brothers.” He waved at Bobby, Gysin, Mahmoud and Brian, who were all standing around Clovis’s bed.
“You caught a nasty bacterial infection. It wasn’t going to go away without a healthy dose of antibiotics.”
“When can I leave?”
“Not so fast. We’ll need to keep you here for several days for evaluation.”
“I want to get back to London.”
“No way. First you rest, then maybe tomorrow we’ll talk about it.”
Bobby asked about telephones service and was pleased to find several private long-distance operators standing by.
He called the house on Southway. Cricket answered. Bobby had no idea what time it was back in Baltimore, all he knew was that he needed to talk to Cricket.
“Bobby?” she asked. “Oh, thank God it’s you!”
“Hi, honey. We just got back to civilization. Clovis got sick and we had to take him to the medical clinic. He’s all right, though.”
Erlene wrenched the phone from Cricket’s hand. “Clovis? Clovis? Put Clovis on!”
Bobby handed the phone to Clovis. “Hon? Is that you?”
Erlene burst into tears. “Oh, baby! Are you okay?”
Clovis chuckled. “Yeah, these guys dragged my sorry ass out of there just in time.”
“What happened to you?”
“I ate some goat meat and got sick as a dog. Then I got dehydrated and rode a camel.”
“Serves you right for eatin’ goat meat. That ain’t right.”
“I’m in the medical clinic, and they gave me some antibiotics and some fluids and they say I might make it after all.”
“I’m coming to London to meet you. I can’t stay away from you, baby.”
“But … I still have to work for Brian.”
“I know. How is Brian?”
“Why do you ask about him? I thought you hated him.”
“Because Eleanor Rigby gave me a message for him.”
Clovis chuckled. “Let’s worry about that later. I need to rest now.”
“I’m coming, too!” Cricket could be heard to shout in the background. Erlene handed the phone back to Cricket.
“Bobby? I’m coming, too. I can’t be away from you. If you have to stay and take care of Brian, then I want to be with you. We’ll move back to Baltimore when we can.”
“It’s great to hear you say that, because I can’t handle it anymore myself.”
“Bobby? How in the world did you get that last telegram to me? It came from somebody named Kevin Cheswick.”
“Carrier pigeon.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Kevin Cheswick is the son of a British diplomat stationed here in Tangier. He raises racing pigeons.”
“How clever. I never would have guessed.”
The trip back to London was uneventful. Clovis was fully recovered, although he’d lost some weight and he was still walking unsteadily. Brian flew first class, Bobby and Clovis sat together in coach. They’d managed to keep Brian out of the news for the time being. There were no crowds waiting for Brian Jones when they landed at Heathrow Airport.
Brian paid for a car and driver to take him to a five-star hotel. Then he dropped Clovis back at his flat before dropping Bobby off at his apartment.
Bobby hadn’t been there for a while and he knew that Clovis had stashed Brian there. He expected the place to be messy, but as soon as he unlocked the door, he noticed how tidy everything was.
Bobby got an odd feeling that somebody was in his apartment. He thought he heard a sound in the bedroom. It sounded like a creaking floorboard.
Bobby’s paranoia got the best of him. Is Brian rubbing off on me? He crept through the living room and peeked into the bedroom. The lights were off.
He tiptoed into the room and felt for the light switch. The feeling that someone was in the room was overpowering. He found the switch and flicked it on.
Nothing moved. Nothing jumped. Bobby noticed that the bed wasn’t made. In fact, it was quite messy. In an apartment that had obviously been professionally cleaned, why would the bed be messed up? Bobby eyed the covers. They were flat as a quesadilla. Nobody could possibly be under them, could they? Bobby gripped the corner of the covers. He took a deep breath and jerked them away.
At that moment, something launched itself at Bobby. A blurred shape, naked flesh, blond hair, an
d a shiny knife.
Time slowed down as it often does in a physical crisis. Bobby’s brain pieced all the clues together in less than a heartbeat. A naked woman with a long sharp dagger came at him from the bed where she’d been hiding. Her face was distorted, but he thought he recognized it.
She was on him so fast he couldn’t react. She slashed with the knife, and Bobby’s arm got in the way. The dagger sunk deep into the flesh of his forearm. Blood began to ooze out of the wound at an alarming rate. In a moment, it was all over the floor, making the room slick with blood.
“Brian!” she screamed. “I love you!” She thrust the knife into his side. It cut Bobby a glancing blow, nicking a two-inch gash under his left lower rib.
Bobby saw her face. It was Renee, her pretty face in a hateful grimace. Bobby’s temper flared.
She thinks I’m Brian! Bobby sure as hell wasn’t going to die as a stand-in. It’s time to turn out the lights on this party.
Renee lunged again, the knife out in front of her. Bobby slammed his fist hard into Renee’s face, causing her nose to crumple and start bleeding. Grabbing the knife out of her hand he twisted her wrist counterclockwise. She yelped as Bobby pressed her into an Aikido wrist lock that Cricket’s father had taught him and applied the pressure. Her little wrist snapped like a twig, and she screamed. Bobby leveraged her arm behind her back and rode her to the ground, face-first. He twisted her arm back and put a foot on her back.
“I’m not Brian!”
He reached for the bedside phone as he held her down. The cops and ambulance were there within minutes.
The medical technicians bandaged Bobby up on the spot. He only needed a few stitches as his wounds were mostly superficial. He had been lucky; Renee hadn’t pierced any vital organs or arteries.
The cops asked Bobby questions for the rest of the night. “You say you know this woman?”
“I’ve seen her around. She’s a groupie.”
“And you say she’s obsessed with Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones? Is he here?”
Bobby said, “No. The woman thought she was attacking Brian Jones instead of me. Even after she saw my face, she still thought I was Brian. She even called me Brian.”
“So she was stalking Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, Brian stayed here once or twice to get away from the press. He was only here a few days, but Renee must have followed him. And when I came in and tiptoed to the bedroom, she assumed I was Brian coming back.”
“And then she attacked you with this?”
The detective held up a WWII German SS ceremonial dagger. Bobby’s eyes got big. “I didn’t notice it at first.”
“This is quite like the murder weapon in the case of Claudine Jillian.”
“The Nazi Ripper? Do you think Renee is the Nazi Ripper? Nah, that’s too far out. What would be her motive?”
“Jealousy. Brian admitted to having sex with Miss Jillian the night before she was murdered. It’s possible that Renee found out. Maybe it was an act of revenge.”
“That’s the only link we have right now.”
Chapter Nineteen
Rock and Roll Circus
During the night of police questioning, Bobby called Clovis and told him what happened. Clovis phoned Brian and roused him and came down right away, but Brian took a few more hours to get ready. By noon, they had all gathered at a restaurant near the police station.
“I’ll tell you, boys. I can’t stand this town anymore. It’s just one big obstacle course for me. To make matters worse, the cops just released Renee. They said they insufficient evidence to hold her any longer.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“What about the knife?”
“I wasn’t the same knife, just a similar one. Her trial on assault with a deadly weapon is coming up, but for now she’s out free. I’m pretty sure she wants to kill me. Rather than protect me, the cops are always waiting to pounce. I’m sick of all this harassment. I’m getting out.”
Clovis and Bobby stared at Brian and blinked.
“So, what are you going to do?”
Brian smiled. “I’m going to buy a country house and live outside London.”
Brian seemed proud of himself. He looked at Bobby and Clovis for their reaction. They didn’t know how to react.
Neither one had ever lived in a proper English country house, something along the lines of Keith’s Redlands Estate. But in typical Brian Jones fashion, their friend was anxious to get started. Brian wanted Bobby to call a real estate agent and start looking at houses immediately.
“Why such a hurry?” Clovis asked.
“The cops are watching me. I’m sunk if I get busted again. From now on, no more dope in the house. I’m going back to drinking.”
“What kind of place are you looking for?”
“Something magic,” Brian replied. “Something with history.”
Bobby purchased some newspapers and real estate magazines. Almost immediately, a property jumped out at him.
He ran back to Brian to tell him. “Cotchford Farm is for sale down in East Sussex, about one hour and twenty minutes from London. It’s the home of A. A. Milne, the author of the Winnie-the-Pooh books. The place is owned by an elderly American couple who would like to sell it.”
“That’s fantastic! Tell me more!”
“Built in the mid-sixteenth century, it has three floors, six bedrooms, three bathrooms, exposed timbers and beams, several fireplaces, a drawing room, study, family room, and bookshelves throughout. It’s got private gardens and a heated outdoor pool, plus an ornamental fishpond and several statues of Christopher Robin. It is surrounded by a five-hundred-acre wood.”
“That sounds perfect!” Brian crowed. “Let’s drive down and see it straightaway.”
Clovis drove Brian’s Rolls south of London, through Dartford, where Mick and Keith grew up, and south on the M25 to Hartfield.
They found the property without much trouble. As they drove up, Brian had his face against the windshield. He was enthralled. Most English children grow up with Winnie-the-Pooh, and here was Brian, about to return to ground zero as an adult.
As he got out of the car and breathed in the tranquil afternoon, Brian fell in love. It didn’t take more a few minutes for him to become entranced with every aspect of Cotchford Farm. He loved the quietly babbling fishpond, the heated pool, the gentle breeze through the fragrant gardens, the stone statues of Christopher Robin, and the feeling of utter safety and contentment he got from the old house. The American couple who owned the property, the Taylors, were somewhat taken aback by Brian’s appearance, but once he turned on the charm, they were happy to take his money. In fact, Clovis had never seen Brian this ebullient.
The couple walked Brian through the house and pointed out everything of interest. Brian had already made up his mind. He wanted Cotchford Farm. He couldn’t wait to move in. Something about the place attracted him. He felt as if he were finally going home, the place where he would spend his days.
Bobby and Brian conferred with the Taylor’s real estate agent in another room, going over details of the sale. Brian left the negotiations to Bobby. He got a great price at thirty thousand English pounds (about seventy-two thousand dollars at the time) and Brian wrote a check. He had more than enough money, of course.
When it was over, Brian stood in the living room and grinned. He spread his arms. “It’s mine, all mine.”
“Welcome home, pardner,” Clovis said.
“Let’s start moving in immediately.”
“Wait a minute, do you mean me and Dust Bin Bob are going to move you in?”
Brian smiled. “Well …”
“No way, José.” Clovis replied. “You hire some professional moving men and we’ll point to where they should put the furniture.”
“Very well. Gentlemen, welcome to Cotchford Farm, the new lair of Bri
an Jones.”
Brian wandered off looking at rooms and spaces. The house had three stories, but there were so many staggered levels and mezzanines, it was impossible to tell how many levels there actually were. Everywhere he looked were the unmistakable signs of A. A. Milne. He had written all the Winnie-the-Pooh classics right there in those rooms.
They drove back to London for the release party of new Stones album, Beggar’s Banquet. Clovis accompanied Brian. The rest of the band treated him as if he’d just stepped in dog shit. Clovis watched how they went out of their way to alienate Brian and it made him sad. It also pissed him off. He knew Brian’s worth to the band, and this just wasn’t fair.
However, Beggar’s Banquet was a masterpiece. Brian Jones had helped lead the Stones back to their R&B roots. Brian had put his imprint on the album with brilliant slide guitar on “No Expectations” and “Stray Cat Blues,” harmonica on “Parachute Woman,” “Dear Doctor,” and “Prodigal Son”, and a host of other instruments on other songs. Brian felt good about his contributions, but the Stones never seemed satisfied by his efforts.
The Rolling Stones jumped into their next project, a TV special called The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus, a bizarre mix of midgets, jugglers, clowns, fire eaters, and of course, rock and roll. It was to promote Beggar’s Banquet. The show featured several popular groups of the day, including Jethro Tull, the Who, Marianne Faithfull, Taj Mahal, and John Lennon fronting a supergroup made up of Eric Clapton on guitar, Keith Richards on bass, and Jimi Hendrix’s drummer, Mitch Mitchell. They called themselves The Dirty Mac.
Brian wandered around zonked out of his head. It embarrassed Clovis and Bobby, who were accompanying him. Why did he feel the need to be stoned around his peers? It was as if he were subconsciously trying to fail. Determined to keep him straight, they kept pumping coffee into him and making him wash his face with cold water.
The shoot started early and ran until very late. A studio audience was brought in to simulate a live concert. The day started brilliantly. Everybody sounded great. Everyone there, including the Stones, thought the Who stole the show. They performed their mini-rock opera A Quick One While He’s Away.