Safari

by Parnell Hall

  Now, then. In support of an opposing viewpoint.

  I found nothing. Absolutely nothing. I don’t know what I was hoping for. A lead pipe with blood on it. Signs of a struggle. I don’t know what signs I was hoping for. A neon sign flashing STRUGGLE would have been nice.

  My god, I’d been at it forever. I had to get back to camp for the afternoon walk. Assuming I could find camp. Of course I could. I knew where the camp was in relation to the tree and the sausage fruit. If no one had moved the sausage fruit, the camp was practically on a perpendicular with the line between them. I sighted an imaginary line and took off.

  I was back in ten minutes. Feeling pretty damn proud about finding the camp, and pretty bummed out about not finding the evidence.

  Now, to maneuver around as if I was just coming back from the straight-drop toilet. I circled the camp and ran straight into an elephant. I was beginning to get a complex. By now I was an old hand at this game. You didn’t argue with an elephant, you just went around him. I skirted the elephant by a circuitous and serpentine route, which got me utterly lost again.

  Just as I was beginning to despair, I spotted an old friend. The straight-drop toilet, shining like a beacon in the afternoon sun. Which I realized was only me projecting—the damn thing was made of canvas and did not gleam—but it sure felt that way. Only when I got closer, something seemed wrong. Suddenly I realized this wasn’t our toilet. I don’t know how I knew that. If questioned on the witness stand, or worse, by Alice, I couldn’t point to a single characteristic, like a rip in the canvas, or a distinctive wood support, or the angle of the flap of the door that alerted me to the fact this wasn’t our toilet, but I knew.

  As I drew closer, I could see the tents behind it. They weren’t our tents either. Had I gotten completely turned around and stumbled on another campsite altogether? No, of course not. This was our campsite. It was the unseen part. The tents of the staff. And their straight-drop toilet. Just like ours. Only not. An identical twin.

  The good news was I had found our camp. The bad news was it was isolated from the main camp, and I didn’t know the layout. I had no idea in what direction our tents lay.

  I looked around for someone to ask, but not speaking the language, I wasn’t sure anyone would be able to tell me.

  I strolled around the camp but there was no one there. Out on some afternoon chore, no doubt. Getting ready for the hike.

  I needed to use the straight-drop toilet. I wondered if I should infringe on their privacy, or pee in the bushes. I was heading away from the toilet. The bushes seemed a better choice. As long as I didn’t pee on a lion.

  I was checking the underbrush for predators when something caught my eye. A wooden stick about the size of a baseball bat. It was rough and irregular with jagged edges. Sunlight reflected off it gave off a reddish glow.

  I told myself I was just imagining things. I mean, come on. Of all the gin joints in all the jungle, the murder weapon wanders into mine?

  I crept closer, bent to look. Sure enough, that was blood.

  I wasn’t going to make the same mistake as Duke, contaminating the evidence all to hell. I did not touch the cudgel. I let it lie exactly where it was, and looked around so I could find it again. The stick was ten yards from the nearest tent on a straight line perpendicular to the back of the tent in practically the dead center. Did the tent in question have any distinguishing marks? Yes, it did. The side flap was half-up and half-down. The front half of the flap was rolled up and tied at the top with a canvas tie. The tie on the back half had come loose, allowing the flap to unroll. I came closer and saw why. One of the canvas ties was ripped off.

  That was enough to identify the tent. Now to double-check that having found it, I could find the stick again.

  No problem. Taking my bearings from the tent, I walked right to it.

  Now if I could just find my way back to camp.

  I walked through the staff camp to make sure there wasn’t another tent with a flap half-down, which there didn’t seem to be.

  One of the staff men came out of his tent. It was Daniel’s replacement, the young spotter apprentice who had taken over his job. He seemed surprised to see me. I could understand why. This was not the tourists’ part of camp.

  “I’m lost,” I said. “Which way is camp?”

  He pointed me through the bushes in a way I would not have gone if left to my own devices. I went through a thicket and emerged on the other side of our campsite, proving that the two campsites were side by side, just invisible from each other. To the right was the clearing where the jeeps were parked. To the left was the river. Straight ahead were the tents.

  John was stacking wood for the campfire. I went up to him and said, “Where’s Clemson?”

  He looked around, said “Tent.”

  “Take me to him.”

  John was startled that I was so abrupt, but he stood up and said, “Come.”

  We found Clemson sitting in front of his tent, going over a ledger. At least I assumed it was some sort of ledger. It was a bound book, and he had a ballpoint pen in his hand. He looked up, frowned. Tourists clearly weren’t expected at his tent.

  “I found the murder weapon.”

  “What?”

  “The stick that killed Daniel. There’s blood on it. I found it.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I got lucky.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me either. I hardly ever get lucky.”

  “What in the world are you talking about.”

  “I went looking for the murder weapon. Against all odds, I found it.”

  “Where?”

  I glanced around. John, after pointing me in Clemson’s direction, had gone back to stacking firewood.

  “I found it in the staff campsite.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “It’s not absurd, but it certainly was a surprise.”

  “Why were you looking in the staff campsite?”

  “Because it wasn’t anywhere else.”

  That was as close an approximation of the truth as I wanted to give. A recitation of my misadventures could serve no earthly purpose.

  “Where is this bloody stick?”

  With his British accent, bloody stick sounded like a curse, which was probably how he felt about it.

  “There.”

  “There?”

  “Where I found it. I didn’t touch it. I left it just where I found it so as not to contaminate the evidence.”

  “That seems an unnecessary precaution. I’d rather have the stick.”

  “Let’s go get it.”

  “If you can find it again.”

  “Take me to the campsite. I’ll show you where it is.”

  “I should tell Duke.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Clemson took a walkie-talkie out of his pocket, spoke into it in dialect. Seconds later it crackled, and a torrent of dialect spewed out.

  “What did you tell him?” I said.

  “That you’re going to show us the murder weapon.”

  “What did he say?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  I followed Clemson through the underbrush. Duke met us at the edge of the staff camp. When he saw Clemson, he burst into dialect and pointed at me.

  “All right,” Clemson said. “Where is it?”

  “Let me get my bearings.”

  I wondered around the camp, looking at the tents. Found the one with the half-rolled flap. I went around to the back, sighted a perpendicular to the back wall, and paced off ten yards into the bush.

  The stick wasn’t there.

  That was okay. Ten yards was an approximation. So was my perpendicular. It was not necessarily a right angle, nor had I necessarily walked one.

  “Where is it?” Clemson said.

  “It’s here. On the ground. In this area.”

  I paced off a ten-foot square on the ground in the heart of where the club must lie.
r />   “There. It’s a large stick with blood on it. We just have to look around until we find it.”

  We looked around, but we didn’t find it.

  The stick was not there.

  17

  WEAPONLESS

  I WAS BEGINNING TO FEEL like the hero in one of those exasperating movies where he knows something is wrong but no one will believe him. There’s a zillion of them, ranging all the way from the most dreadful low-budget horror movie right up to classics like Rear Window. Unfortunately, I wasn’t Jimmy Stewart. I was a B-movie actor, only slightly less popular then pond scum.

  “So you’re the one spreading the rumor,” the other husband said in a peevish way as we gathered before dinner.

  “What rumor?”

  “That it wasn’t an accident. That someone killed the boy.”

  It was clear enough what he meant from his tone. He might as well have said, so you’re the troublemaker.

  The afternoon hike had been changed to a game drive. Due to my allegations, Duke had spent the afternoon questioning the staff, leaving John’s group with no ranger. Clemson canceled the hikes, gave Mowangi’s ranger the afternoon off, and sent out the jeeps with guides and spotters.

  We probably saw something, but whatever it was wasn’t memorable enough to leave an impression. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts. Discovering the stick strongly pointed to foul play. The fact that it was missing clinched it. At least to my satisfaction. As far as anyone else was concerned, I was either making it up or had imagined it.

  “It’s not a rumor and I’m not spreading it,” I said. “I found a bloody stick. Duke’s checking it out.”

  “It seems a waste of time. What’s he expect to find?”

  “I doubt if he expects to find anything, but it’s his job.”

  Keith and the other man came over. “You really think it’s a murder?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I really think Daniel was hit with a stick, not a sausage fruit.”

  “Which would be murder.”

  “It could be self-defense.”

  “If it was self-defense, why wouldn’t someone say so?”

  “Self-defense isn’t that easy to prove. Between pleading self-defense and hoping people think he got hit with a sausage fruit, I’d go with the fruit every time.”

  “That’s stupid,” Keith said.

  It was just us boys hanging out. The four of us were all the men there were in the party. The other seven tourists were all women. Which was fine with me. It was just if the killer was one of us, there were only four male suspects. That’s no knock at women, who make absolutely dandy killers. But hitting someone over the head with a club seemed a manly thing to do.

  If a woman had killed Daniel, my first choice for a candidate, Hells Angel #2, came barging up saying, “You guys picking on Stanley?”

  They were, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be defended by a Hells Angel, amorous or not. “They’re taking their justly deserved shots,” I said. “If you want to join them, fire away.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, then proceeded to do so. “Who in the world would want to kill a nice young boy like that? It makes no sense. An accident I could understand. But a murder? That’s really stretching it, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t think, but I wasn’t about to argue.

  Lolita’s mother came next, predictably seeing this all as an attack on her and her daughter. “If this is true, how are any of us safe? Did you think about that before you made these wild accusations?”

  I could honestly say that I had not weighed the impact on the safety of the group before I made my accusations. At least it had never occurred to me it might affect them in a negative way. Exposing a killer, it seemed to me, would be doing just the opposite.

  Alice 2, the one I wasn’t married to, joined the discussion. “This is silly. Going around questioning the staff. It would make more sense to question us.”

  Lolita’s mother’s mouth dropped open. “But we don’t know anything,” she protested.

  Alice 2 smiled. “We may think we don’t. But we may know something and not know that we know it. I’ve been reading Agatha Christie novels, and I must say they’re very good. And the main clue in the story is usually given by someone who doesn’t know that what they know is important. Some minor detail, like Daniel’s searchlight.”

  The other husband said, “What about his searchlight?”

  “That was just an example. A bad one, I admit, and I don’t have a good one. If I did, I’d know why it was a good one. I’d know why it was important. I’d know what it meant.”

  Hells Angel #1 showed up for the end of that conversation. “Know what what meant?”

  “A clue to what happened,” Keith said.

  “You have a clue to what happened?”

  “No,” Alice 2 said. “I’m just saying if I did, I might not know it was important. Still, it might come out through careful questioning.”

  Alice and Lolita showed up chatting. That couldn’t be good. I wondered what they were talking about. I hoped it wasn’t me.

  “Well, what’s everyone talking about?” Alice said.

  “As if we didn’t know,” Lolita said. She looked at me with a malicious twinkle. “You didn’t say you were a private investigator. Can you believe that? An actual PI.”

  “You’re a PI?” Alice 2 said, which set off a round of my I’m-not-that-type-of-detective-I-just-chase-ambulances routine.

  No one was buying it. As far as they were concerned, I fancied myself some hotshot TV detective, which was why I was spoiling their fun by mistaking this unfortunate accident for a murder.

  The other wife joined us, completing the party. She had just come from her tent so she had no idea what was going on, but she sensed the tension.

  “What’s the matter?” she said.

  Her husband pointed to me. “He’s a PI.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a private investigator,” Lolita said. “He’s going to solve Daniel’s murder.”

  I wished she hadn’t said that, and with such a wicked twinkle in her eye. It was like she was deliberately setting me up again.

  The wife stared at me. “You’re a detective?”

  “Not a police detective,” I said. “I handle negligence claims.”

  “Negligence? What has that got to do with Daniel?”

  “It doesn’t. I stumbled on the stick that killed him. Quite by accident. Duke’s looking into it. It’s his job.”

  “Phooey,” Alice 2 said. “You think he’s going to find anything? He couldn’t even find the stick.”

  “That’s hardly his fault. I couldn’t find it either. Somebody took the stick.”

  “So you say,” Keith said.

  I wasn’t going to rise to that bait. I was willing to let the implication lie.

  Alice 2 wasn’t. “What do you mean by that?” she said. “Are you accusing him of lying?”

  “No,” Keith said. “I’m sure he thinks he found the stick.”

  I would have preferred an accusation. His patronizing condescension was more annoying and harder to deal with. Not that I was about to.

  Unfortunately, I had a protector.

  “Don’t be silly,” Alice 2 said. “Stanley’s a private investigator. You think he doesn’t know a murder weapon when he sees one?”

  “Oh, sure,” Keith said. “Are you telling me you can tell the difference between a stick that killed someone and a stick a farmer used to kill a pig?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “I don’t have that type of training, that type of expertise.”

  I hoped that admission would make me sound amateurish enough not to be considered a serious threat to be solving any murders.

  Unfortunately, it had the reverse effect. Television was awash with self-deprecating macho PIs. Pooh-poohing my abilities was obviously a clear indication of how confident I was in them.

  “So,” Alice 2 said. “Assuming the killer’s one of us, are you goi
ng to question us all to see if anyone makes a slip?”

  “Is that what they do in the books you read?”

  She cocked her head at me. “I’m sure you read them too.”

  “Of course I do. But I know the difference between fiction and real life.”

  “I’m not really interested in a philosophical discussion about books,” the other husband said. “The point is, are you going to go around interrogating people about a murder?’

  I took a breath. “As I said before, that’s not my job.”

  “I know it’s not your job. I’m asking if you intend to do it.”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Oh, don’t get all huffy on us just because some people questioned your authority,” Alice 2 said. “If anyone’s going to make an independent investigation, it ought to be you. You’re the only one with experience.”

  Clemson came walking up for the tail end of that. “Experience with what?” he said.

  “Crime,” Alice 2 said. She pointed at me triumphantly. “Stanley’s a private investigator.”

  Clemson looked at me with what, were I not a tourist, would have been distaste. “Oh, is he really?” he said dryly.

  18

  BUSH SHOWER

  DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS SUBDUED. People just sat and packed it in. We had salad, meat, mashed potatoes, and some sort of vegetable. I had no idea what it was, nor had I any idea what was in the salad. I just knew it had a lot of greens, and the dressing wasn’t much. Alice, to her credit, didn’t complain, as she usually does in the absence of balsamic vinaigrette, but she like the rest of us was restrained.

  The meat might have been chicken, beef, or warthog. I barely tasted it. I kept looking around at my fellow travelers, wondering which of them might be a killer. I didn’t think any of them were, but Alice 2 had made me suspicious, just as she had made everyone suspicious. The number of surreptitious sidelong glances escalated geometrically as we sized each other up, trying to decide if we were killers, victims, or sleuths. I was doing it myself, even though I was sure I knew the answer. We were none of the above. The victim was Zambian. The killer was Zambian. The detective investigating the crime, Duke, was Zambian. We were a group of tourists unlucky enough to have barely known the victim, an employee, hired to assist the employees hired by Clemson to assist us. Sort of like a second cousin twice removed, whatever the hell that means. I’ve never understood the expression, though it always conjured up the image of some secret society of terrorists who went around removing cousins.