Sir Gardnor had got up and was rocking backwards and forwards on his heels in a preoccupied, absent-minded kind of way. Major Hastings had just left them.
‘You really must excuse us, Mr. Stebbs,’ Sir Gardnor said. ‘I’d no idea we should have this interruption when I asked you over. But you do understand, don’t you. You’ve heard of the Leopard Men, of course?’
‘I’ve heard of them, sir.’
‘And you know their methods?’
‘I can guess.’
Sir Gardnor smiled indulgently.
‘We can do better than guesswork, can’t we, Tony? Perhaps you’d like to show Mr. Stebbs our objet trouvé. It’s hardly the thing to leave lying about.’
The A.D.C. removed his key chain from his pocket, and went over to the red lacquer cabinet in the corner. Inside it stood a plain black enamelled safe that looked as though it had come straight out of a counting-house.
Sir Gardnor turned his head towards the A.D.C.
‘Give Mr. Stebbs the pouch,’ he said. ‘Let him open it himself, shall we?’
The A.D.C. was on his way back by now.
‘Perhaps you’d like to sit up to the table, Mr. Stebbs,’ he suggested. ‘It can be a bit awkward otherwise.’
The package that he handed to Harold was surprisingly heavy, and rather unpleasantly hard even through the two layers of chamois-leather in which it was wrapped. When he put it down, it landed on the table with a thud.
Sir Gardnor was watching him closely.
‘Open it up, Mr. Stebbs,’ he said.
As Harold unwrapped the parcel, it began to jingle. He folded back the chamois-leather, and there on the table was the palm of a hand made out of thick cow-hide. But it was not the cow-hide that was remarkable. It was what was wired onto it. Where the thumb and fingers would have been there were claws, four inch claws, of blue polished steel.
Harold looked up for a moment, and saw Sir Gardnor’s eyes fixed upon him.
‘Turn it over, Mr. Stebbs,’ he said. ‘Then you can see the loops the real fingers go through. I’m afraid the stains on the leather will never come out. But it’s been thoroughly cleaned, I assure you.’
Harold made no movement towards it. He stood there feeling suddenly sick.
‘Then shall I show you?’ Sir Gardnor asked. ‘It’s really nothing. Not in our hands, at least.’
He picked it up and inserted his fingers so easily that it was obvious that he had demonstrated it before. And when the glove was in position, he held out the talons towards Harold, almost as if he were shaking hands with him.
‘You’ve noticed the quality of the steel?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t native work, of course. It’s engine-turned. German, probably. They use it like this.’
He went over to the blotting-pad on his desk, and drew the claws across it. Little tufts, and then whole chunks, of the paper began to come away. When he pressed harder, the whole of the pad attached itself and came away.
‘Try it for yourself,’ he said. ‘Then you’ll get the feel of it.’
Harold kept his hands to his side.
‘No, thank you, sir.’
Sir Gardnor smiled.
‘You don’t fancy it?’ he asked reprovingly. ‘But this is Africa, Mr. Stebbs,’ he said. ‘This is Africa.’
Chapter 3
The study window of the bungalow looked out onto a pleasant enough corner of the grounds, with a trickle of brown water in front and the little woodland of acacia trees banked up, feathery, behind.
Spread out on the work table before him was Sir Gardnor’s manuscript. The typing was treble-spaced and clear enough. But most of it had already been crossed out; and it was what was written in between the lines that kept slowing Harold up. The elegant, rather beautiful handwriting had been scribbled over and corrected, too. Successive revisions in different coloured inks bulged out at the sides like toy balloons, and occupied the margins.
For the moment, however, it was all out of sight, covered up by that day’s issue of the Amimbo Times. And it was still the Omtala incident that dominated the front page. By now, the tributes were coming in. Harold learned that Alastair Henderson, the dead District Officer, had been loyal, efficient, popular, Old Haileyburian, married, the father of two children, a good all round sportsman and ripe in every way for high promotion. He had even, it appeared, played rugger for Blackheath. ‘A truly memorable and distinctive wing three-quarter’ was how one of the notices described him. Omtala was a long way from Blackheath, Harold reflected; and the very fact of distance made the death seem somehow sadder.
One thing at least had been established. The killing had been a quick and relatively simple one: there was only a single wound. The blow must have been delivered with great force while Henderson had been lying flat on his back.
What was concerning the police was that the intruders had started to carry away the body: they disapproved of that. The fact that the intruders had been disturbed and had dumped it had come as a considerable relief all round: decent Christian burial was a much nicer end than the opening of the whole deplorable episode had suggested possible.
Beside the Amimbo Times lay the native broadsheet, Trumpet Blast, with a Mimbo phrasebook and dictionary resting on top of it. One day —if he stayed out there long enough—Harold hoped to be able to read Mimbo: in the meantime, he had found someone in Native Affairs to translate it for him.
And it was certainly all good stuff. The Governor, it appeared, had been bewitched, and the King-Emperor himself, it said, should therefore come out and take charge of operations. For Trumpet Blast had repeatedly warned Sir Gardnor about forthcoming outrages, and had even named the ring-leader. He was a foreigner; someone from Nigeria, probably. In appearance, he was unmistakeable: five foot three in height, aged fifty-four, and with a slight limp. He possessed, moreover, the unusual ability of being able to turn himself at will into an owl. There were numerous, reliable witnesses to attest to the fact that after every one of the recent outrages an owl, unusually large and fierce-looking, had been seen flying away from the scene of carnage. The limp itself was attributed to a lucky shot by a loyal Mimboese as the sinister bird had soared off overhead in the direction of Lagos.
But bewitched or not, the Governor had somehow contrived to keep up with his ruthlessly imposed schedule. The set in the corner tuned in to Amimbo Radio was at the moment reporting the latest stage in the tour.
In addition to a big meeting with the chiefs, the announcer said, Sir Gardnor had declared open a new Methodist missionary school as well as the hospital-block extension to a Catholic leper colony. Between the crackles on the loud-speaker—there was evidently quite a big storm coming, or the Chief Engineer was having trouble with the transmitter again—Harold had been able to make out that tomorrow’s arrangements included another display of ceremonial dancing by Mimbo warriors, and the official re-opening of a bridge that had collapsed two rainy seasons ago.
The sound of the latch on the garden door roused him.
The bungalow was quiet, very quiet by now, with the two house-boys out at the back somewhere, asleep probably. But there was certainly someone around. A moment later, he heard the little rasping noise that the mosquito frame, warped down one side, always made as the door opened.
Whoever was there was coming in, secretly and unannounced, by the door that none of his other visitors had ever yet used. Harold found himself remembering Henderson.
His study was at the far end of the bungalow. It led onto a short passageway, bounded at the other end by a curtain of brightly-coloured native beads that the flies for some reason regarded as impenetrable. Harold moved quietly along the strip of coconut matting that carpeted the passageway and stationed himself behind the screen.
The garden door had been left wide open, and a shaft of bright yellow light now cut the room in two. The long divan with the pile of cushions up against the wall was brilliantly lit, even though the drawn shutters left the rest of the room in semi-twilight. The shaft of light was c
ut suddenly by a shadow. It was the shadow of a girl. A moment later— she was moving quite silently—he saw the girl herself. She was young, somewhere in her twenties, Harold reckoned; her face hidden from him by the loose dark hair. She paused, her back towards him, to glance towards the open door as though to make sure that she had not been followed.
He noticed then that her dress was creased, and that there were dust stains across it. It was the red Amimbo dust that followed you about like a cloud as soon as you got off the five miles of metalled highway.
When she turned, Harold could see that she was carrying a flower. It was simply one of the magenta blooms that tried everywhere to smother the mosquito netting outside. But she was holding it as if it were precious. And, as he watched, she brought it up to her lips and kissed it.
Then she went slowly over to the divan, and stood there, not moving, her head bent forward. She was so still that he had the impression that she might even be praying. He waited. When at last she came away, he saw that she had left the flower lying on the piled-up cushions.
He shifted his position. As he did so, his shoulder set the bead curtain rattling. It began a little jingle that he could not stop. The girl immediately spun round. She was frightened.
‘Who’s there?’ she asked.
Harold stepped forward, separating the hanging beads with outstretched arms like a swimmer. She was facing him now. She had one hand raised to her face and, with the other, she was reaching out, trying to steady herself.
‘You’d better sit down,’ he said.
She began to sway. He went over and put his arm round her. As he did so he was aware of two things: of how small she was, and of the perfume she was using—it came as a sharp, clean smell in the atmosphere of that sultry, unused room. She was still trembling as he led her across to the divan.
‘And put your head down,’ he said when he had got her to a chair. ‘I’ll get you a glass of water.’
When he returned with the water—it was practically at blood-heat because the houseboy had forgotten to put any ice in the jug—she was already sitting up again. But she was very pale. As he approached her, he was conscious simply of dark, shining eyes set in a dead white face.
‘You’ll feel better in a moment,’ he said.
As soon as she had drunk a sip, she turned on him.
‘And what the hell are you doing here?’ she asked.
Her eyes were very wide open now: he was looking straight into them.
‘Because I bloody well live here,’ he replied. ‘Because it’s my bungalow.’
‘Your bungalow?’
Harold nodded.
‘Who told you you could have it?’
‘The Governor,’ Harold answered. ‘It’s his, isn’t it?’
She brought her hands up to her face as if to protect herself.
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t have done that. He couldn’t.’
She turned her head, and began brushing some of the dust stains off her dress.
‘I’ve been away, you see,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just got back. I didn’t know.’
He stood there, staring down at her.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked. ‘A proper drink. Like gin.’
‘I’ve been drinking whisky.’
‘Isn’t any. Gin do?’
She nodded.
The drink he poured her was a stiff one. He shook in the pink, and adding only a splash of the warm water from the thermos-jug. Then he poured himself a drink, too. ‘Try this,’ he said. ‘There’s no ice. It’s practically all gin.’
Before she even took a sip she began thrusting her hair back, first behind one ear and then behind the other. She gave her head a little shake as she did so. Then she raised the glass to her lips, and looked full at him again.
‘Happy days,’ she said.
‘Happy days.’
He was watching her closely now; so closely that he could see the veins of colour begin to come back into her cheeks. As he looked, the whole face was suddenly alive again. She had crossed her legs and was now smiling at him.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked.
Harold felt in his pocket.
‘It’s only an ordinary Players,’ he said, wondering as he did so why he should seem to be apologising.
‘Light it for me, please.’
He was clumsy with the match, and she put her fingers on his hand to direct the flame. They were cool, soft fingers.
‘I suppose you know who I am?’ she asked.
She was still looking at him as she put the question, and she had her glass raised to her lips as she asked it. The question was vague and entirely casual, as though it would be funny in an unimportant sort of way if he shouldn’t know the answer.
He paused.
‘Are you … are you Lady Anne?’
‘Then you’ve heard of me?’
‘I have.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Only that you were away somewhere.’
She laughed.
‘Well, I’m not, am I?’ she said. ‘I’m having a drink in your bungalow. And I don’t even know your name. Who are you?’
‘Stebbs,’ he said. ‘Harold Stebbs.’
She was still laughing at him: he could see that.
‘Stebbs is a funny name,’ she told him. ‘It isn’t even like a name really. I think I shall call you Harold.’
‘Just as you please.’
He had lit his own cigarette now and, having something to play with, he felt more at ease.
She put her head to one side.
‘Now you’re cross with me,’ she said. ‘I don’t wonder. I’ve interrupted you. I’m sorry.’ She paused. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘I’m helping Sir Gardnor,’ he told her. ‘I’m doing some work for his book.’
She raised her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘But you can’t just live here like a hermit. You come over to the house sometimes, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes,’ he told her.
‘Then I’ll send a note across. I don’t mean for one of the big parties. You’ll be invited to all of those anyhow. I mean for drinks. Sometime when we’re both feeling bored.’
She was smiling at him again. And, while she was speaking, she was was groping behind her on the divan for the flower that she had left there. When she found it, she crushed it up in her hand. And still with the flower held in it, she put out her other hand to say good-bye.
Not that it made much difference to the flower. In that heat, any bloom had less than an hour’s life once it had been pulled off its stem.
Chapter 4
The Governor’s return to Amimbo was magnificent, simply magnificent ; the great Bwana was back, and in triumph.
Mr. Frith was the first to agree that no one else could have accomplished so much. Too much, in fact. With the Chief Secretary away, it meant that Mr. Frith’s staff was working late every night, starting new dossiers, typing drafts, filing reports, preparing estimates, losing things.
In consequence, Mr. Frith was in a bad way. His facial tic, in particular, had grown worse. And his drinking habits had been disturbed. Not returning to his bungalow before half-past nine or even ten, he was forced to concentrate into the few remaining hours a process which in the ordinary way would have begun at 6 o’clock at the latest or, on a good evening, around 5.30.
Also, he was worried. The Governor, like some Moslem potentate, had been giving away money—Government money. There was the promise of a thousand pounds for a T.B. testing station for cattle up at Omtala; an annual sum, unspecified, for a colony for the blind which had not even been down on his itinerary; and there were the minutes of a brief and alarming conversation with Mr. Ngo Ngono, in which Sir Gardnor seemed to have committed himself to plans for some kind of technical training school away out in the bush where they were all pastoralists, anyhow.
Everything which Mr. Ngono had ever suggested had led to
trouble. There was the hydro-electric plant—fifty thousand acres of good agricultural land flooded to make the new reservoir, and then the two-year drought during which the dam itself had cracked and disintegrated. There was the village industry scheme under which lathes and drills and band saws had been distributed to astonished tribesmen merely to get broken, rusted-up or lost, or just plain stolen; the only evidence that the machinery had ever existed were a few maimed unfortunates who hobbled round as best they could after having got themselves tangled up in sharp and moving parts that they hadn’t asked for in the first place. There was the anti-pest campaign with teams of unsuspecting natives out all day, devotedly spraying their crops with a noxious chemical— someone had misread the instructions—which killed everything it touched, the crops included; there was the big grain silo—the first of a chain that was to stretch across the whole country—that had blown up through spontaneous combustion and set a whole township ablaze simply because the ventilating valves had all been turned the wrong way. And now, Mr. Ngono, thoroughly Europeanised with his double-breasted blazer and his wristwatch and his gold fountain pen and his portable gramophone and his motor bicycle, had sent a letter saying that he was already on his way to Amimbo in order that he might, with the Governor, continue his respectfully above-mentioned and deeply esteemed conversation.
As for Harold, he had been working hard—flat-out, on Sir Gardnor’s book; putting eight or nine hours a day into it. It was the hardest that he had worked since his Finals, and he had been thoroughly enjoying himself.
Not that he was up-to-date, or anything like it. That was because of the typing problem. Mr. Frith had set aside one of his best clerks, practically the star-performer in the whole Department. But typing was as yet scarcely his métier. Instructed as he had been in the Amimbo Commercial College and allowed to practise on a machine in the Y.M.C.A. in the evenings, he was still only somewhere in the high-grade amateur bracket. Enthusiastic, yes: proficient, no.
And overawed by his new responsibilities, he grew nervous. Sometimes he left out whole sentences; at other times only odd lines or key phrases. Every so often through over-concentration he just shoved the carriage back, forgetting altogether to use the line-space lever. When that happened, everything went black: words got piled up on top of other words, or filled up the little spaces in between. Then he would rub out furiously, tearing great gashes in the paper.
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