Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense

by Linda Landrigan

  “Why can’t we get closer to them?” Helen asks.

  “Scare off the herd,” Frank explains. “We’re not here to disturb the daily ebb and flow of life.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Helen says, “but I’m here on vacation.”

  “Sorry, no can do,” Frank says.

  And at that moment, a Land Rover from another safari pulls up not twenty feet from where the stalking cheetah sit silently watchful.

  “How come they can do it?” Helen asks, pouting.

  “Doesn’t make it right,” Frank says.

  “I agree with her,” Therese says. “We should move up closer.”

  “If you want to get close to some predators,” Davey says, leaning in toward her, virtually whispering in her ear, “I’ll take you out early one morning.”

  Therese does not answer.

  BEFORE DINNER THAT night, they sit ranged behind the roaring fire, facing the starry plain and the unseen eyes out there, drinking what Davey and Frank call “Sundowners.” Davey takes a poke at the fire, tosses the branch onto the flaming pyramid, and walks back to where Jeremy and Therese are sitting side by side, holding hands, looking out past the fire to the plain. He takes the camp chair on Therese’s right. He is silent for a moment, and then he leans in close to her.

  “When would you like to see those predators?” he whispers.

  “I wouldn’t,” Therese says.

  Davey shrugs.

  “The offer stands open, sweetheart,” he says, and smiles knowingly.

  “TOMORROW NIGHT we’ll be having fresh fish for dinner,” Frank announces.

  “Best fish in the world,” Davey says.

  “World’s largest freshwater fish,” Frank says.

  “The Nile perch.”

  “Chris should be here bright and early …”

  “Chris?” Helen says.

  “Our charter pilot,” Frank says. “The one who flew us here.”

  “Bald guy, blue eyes?” Lou asks.

  “That’s Chris. We should be in Lake Victoria and on the water by nine, nine thirty. A break for lunch at the hotel on Rusinga Island, then out on the water again, and back home in the afternoon.”

  “To cook up the fish,” Davey says, and licks his lips. “Yummy, yummy, yummy,” he says to Therese.

  IN THE DEAD of night, Jeremy and Therese pack their bags. They have not brought much luggage to the Masai Mara, a single bag each, and so packing is an easy task.

  Their plan is a simple one.

  At breakfast tomorrow morning, they will tell Frank and his partner that they are leaving the safari. Frank will undoubtedly protest that they’ve only been out three days, and even so they’ve seen a plentiful amount of game, it’s rare that anyone spots the Big Three in so short a time, but they’ve already seen cheetah, leopard, and lion—lion in abundance, in fact, so what’s the great hurry? Give Africa a chance.

  Jeremy will explain that they’re not used to roughing it this way. He will explain that what they’d like to do is check into the hotel on Rusinga, stay there for a few days, make their leisurely way back to Nairobi on their own …

  Frank will undoubtedly remind them that the price of the safari is nonrefundable …

  Yes, Jeremy will say, we realize that. But we’ve made up our minds.

  By the light of their single flickering kerosene lamp, Jeremy rehearses what he will say tomorrow morning. When he finishes, Therese claps her hands.

  Like giddy midnight conspirators, they begin giggling, and then fall into bed together.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Therese takes one look at her husband and says, “My God, what happened to you?”

  In the mirror, Jeremy’s left eye is swollen to the size of a golf ball. He suspects some insect, most likely a spider, has bitten him during the night, and he goes immediately to his traveling medical kit. There, among the Tylenol and the Seconal, there among the pills for nausea or diarrhea or constipation, there among the adhesive bandages and the sterile gauze pads, he finds some alcohol swabs, and cleans the swollen eye, and then dabs it with Neosporin ointment.

  Looking at himself in the mirror again, he thinks, I don’t even look like myself anymore.

  But their bags are packed, and in a little while the plane will be here, and they’ll be out of here, they’ll be leaving the Masai Mara, leaving Nairobi, leaving Kenya, leaving Africa.

  He smiles at his own image, and then winces because the damn eye hurts.

  “WE WON’T BE going to Lake Victoria today,” Frank announces at breakfast. “Nor any other day this week.”

  “But it’s part of the itinerary,” Helen reminds him.

  “Yes, I know, and we’ll make an adjustment in the tour price. But I just spoke to Chris on the radio …”

  “I had my heart set on fishing,” Lou says.

  “It’s part of the itinerary,” Helen says again.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong with the fuel lines on his plane, and he’s had to take it into the shop. He doesn’t think it’ll be fixed till the end of the week, when it’s time for you to go back to Nairobi. I’m sorry.”

  “Then get another plane,” Jeremy says.

  “No, I can’t do that,” Frank says.

  “Why not?”

  “These charter planes are expensive. They’re all figured into the price. I have an arrangement with Chris. I can’t just go to another company …”

  “You said you’d make an adjustment,” Helen reminds him.

  “Yes, but …”

  “So use the adjustment to charter another plane,” Jeremy says.

  “No, that would be prohibitive, I’m sorry. No can do.”

  “Looks like we’re stuck right here for the next little while,” Davey says, and grins impishly. Shrugging, he picks up his fork and stabs it into the eggs on his plate. Yellow spreads like a stain.

  “We’ll just have to make our own fun,” he says.

  A PAIR OF giraffe are eating from thorn trees.

  Three giant secretary birds lope across the plain.

  A tiny baby elephant rushes from behind the protective cover of his mother’s thick legs to charge their Land Rover, trumpeting like a bull, and then hurries back to hide behind his mother again.

  Elegant crested cranes spread their wings, glide to a stop just feet from where a herd of Cape buffalo scowl in seeming disapproval.

  But always there is the incessant, insinuating, intimidating presence of David Lawrence Ladd.

  THE LAND ROVER is parked some fifty feet from where a pair of lions are mating. Everywhere on the plain, there are mating lions. They couple, they collapse to the ground to rest, they couple again.

  “That’s the life, huh?” Davey says, and turns to grin at Therese.

  On this fourth day of the safari, Therese ignores him completely.

  Like the Masai women who walk across the Mara to market in neighboring villages, their heads high, their shoulders back, seemingly impervious to the threat of stalking predators, Therese simply ignores him—until it becomes completely impossible to do so.

  THAT AFTERNOON, they make a point of placing themselves in the Land Rover Frank will be driving. The Cantoris don’t seem to appreciate this too much, but their day brightens considerably when they spot, up close, two sleeping leopards in a tree, and—not ten minutes later—witness six hunting lionesses stalking and killing a huge Cape buffalo.

  “A kill!” Lou trumpets. “We actually witnessed a kill!”

  As evening approaches, they are all walking along a narrow trail beside a deep pond where earlier this morning they watched hippos splashing and romping in the water. They are following the track of what Frank tells them is a cheetah. Jeremy asks if it’s wise for them to be walking around in the open. But Frank assures them they will be perfectly safe. He himself is carrying a high-powered rifle with a telescopic sight, and Davey, of course, has his trusty Glock.

  They are walking single file.

  Frank in the lead, his rifle at the rea
dy.

  Then Helen.

  Then Therese.

  Then Davey.

  And Lou.

  And last in line, Jeremy, who is anxiously watching both sides of the trail, alert to every sound.

  Up ahead, Therese suddenly stops dead in her tracks.

  She turns to look sharply at Davey, and then immediately walks back past him, and past Lou, to where Jeremy is bringing up the rear of the line.

  “What is it?” he says.

  She shakes her head.

  SHE DOES NOT tell him what happened until they are alone later in their tent. Outside, the sky has already begun to surrender to the brilliance of another African sunset.

  “He touched me,” she whispers. “He ran his hand up the inside of my leg.”

  “I’ll go talk to him,” Jeremy says.

  “Be careful,” she warns, but he has already stormed out of the tent.

  THE TWO MEN are silhouetted against the changing sky.

  Lou Cantori has a very tall, very dark drink in his right hand. He still can’t get over having witnessed an actual kill. He can’t wait to show his friends back home the movie he took. Davey seems to be listening intently, smiling as he piles tinder and logs onto what will become their nightly fire. As Jeremy purposefully approaches, there is a sudden caterwauling out on the plain.

  “What the hell is that?” Lou asks.

  Davey throws another log onto the heap. Seemingly addressing Lou, he says, “Probably some young lion trying to take a female from the pride. The patriarch is letting him know he won’t let it happen.” He kicks the log into place with his booted foot. “But it will, eventually. He can roar all he wants out there, but the young lion’ll take over the pride anyway, sooner or later.” He stoops before the heap of stacked logs, strikes a match, touches it to the tinder. The fire leaps into flame. He looks up from it, directly into Jeremy’s eyes. “That’s the way it is out here, Dr. Palmer,” he says.

  There is an unmistakable challenge in his eyes.

  I have touched your wife, those eyes say.

  And I will touch her again.

  Jeremy stares back into those eyes.

  He is thinking, You’re twenty-five years younger than I am, my friend.

  And you’re in great physical shape.

  And you carry a 9-millimeter Glock in a holster on your hip.

  But …

  “Better check on my bride. See you guys at dinner,” Lou says, and ambles off toward his tent.

  The flames leap higher, seeming to ignite the sky itself with unimaginable reds, yellows, and oranges.

  Without preamble, Jeremy says, “Stay away from my wife.”

  “What?” Davey says, and turns from the fire, a surprised look on his face.

  “Your attentions are unwanted and unsolicited. You are making both of us extremely uncomfortable …”

  “Hey, Doc, back off a minute, okay?” Davey says, and holds up his hands as if to fend off an imminent blow. “What attentions?”

  “Davey, I’m not interested in any of your bullshit, truly,” Jeremy says. “If you ever touch her again …”

  “Touch her? Are you …?”

  “Stay away from her, Davey! Don’t sit near her, don’t talk to her, don’t make any more sexual remarks to her …”

  “Sexual, Jesus!”

  “Just keep the hell away from her!”

  He is talking louder than he realized. Across the compound, he sees Lou Cantori stop before his tent and turn to look at them.

  “Do you think you have that?” Jeremy whispers.

  Davey says nothing.

  “Have I made myself clear?” Jeremy whispers.

  “Why, sure, Doc,” Davey says, and grins.

  JEREMY IS SITTING outside the tent on their so-called veranda, thoughtfully silent, when Therese comes to him. She is wearing a white robe and carrying a white bar of soap. Her feet are bare.

  “Did you talk to him?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he understand?”

  “I think so. I hope so.”

  She shakes her head.

  “I wish this weren’t happening to us,” she says.

  “It’ll be over soon,” he says.

  “Worst week in my life. Ever.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  She bends to him, kisses him on the cheek.

  “I love you so much,” she says.

  “I love you, too, darling.”

  She kisses him again. “I’m going to shower,” she says. “Make a drink for me, will you?”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’ll be okay, it’s still light.” She turns to go, comes back to him, brushes her hand across his cheek. “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  She nods.

  “I hate him for this,” she says.

  “I do, too.”

  “But it’ll be over soon,” she says, repeating his words.

  “Yes, soon, darling.”

  He eases himself out of the camp chair.

  “Gin and tonic?” he asks.

  “Please.”

  He starts up for the mess tent. The fire is crackling and hissing. Davey is nowhere in sight now. The evening sky is a symphony in brass.

  Therese walks through their sleeping tent to the back flaps, and then crosses the five feet or so to the shower stall. Inside the stall, she takes off her robe and reaches through the flap to hang it on a peg outside.

  The water from the Mara River is thick and brown. The safari boys lug it in buckets to the cook tent, where they heat it in huge cauldrons and then carry it to the separate shower stalls clustered behind each of the sleeping tents. There, they pour the water into the canvas sacks above each of the stalls. Inside the shower, you pull a chain to unleash a flow of warm water, soaking yourself. You release the chain, and it cuts off the downpour. You soap yourself clean, and pull the chain again to rinse yourself.

  Standing on the narrow wooden planking underfoot, Therese pulls the chain now, and lets loose a splash of water. Releasing the chain to stop the flow, she begins soaping herself. Her long hair wet, her body wet and covered now with suds, she is reaching for the chain again, when the flap to the shower stall is suddenly thrown back.

  “Well, well, well,” Davey says. “What have we here!”

  “Get away from me,” she says.

  “Sorry, I thought the stall was empty.”

  “Get away from me,” she says again.

  “Sure you don’t want me to join you?” he says, and reaches in to touch her breast. She is too startled to scream. She throws the bar of soap at him, full into his face, hitting him over the eye with it. Grinning, he backs away. “See you at dinner,” he says. “Nice tits, by the way.” Still grinning, he lets the flap fall free of his hand.

  Therese stands naked and glistening, covered with soap, gulping in huge breaths of air. At last, she pulls the chain to rinse herself in muddy river water.

  When she tells Jeremy what just happened, he merely nods.

  That is all.

  FOR DINNER THAT night, the chef serves wildebeest.

  “There are people all over the world who prefer it to beef,” Davey says. “I asked the chef to prepare it specially for you, Therese.” When she makes no reply, he goes through his routine again, saying to himself, “Why, thank you, Davey, that was very kind of you.” Therese is deliberately sitting very far away from him, on the opposite side of the mess tent table, between Lou and Frank.

  Helen proposes a game.

  The idea is to describe yourself by attaching an adjective to your first name.

  Frank picks up on it at once.

  He’s had a bit too much to drink.

  “Fearless Frank,” he says.

  “Lucky Lou,” Lou says.

  “Happy Helen.”

  Therese hesitates.

  “Tired Therese,” she says at last.

  Davey, too, has been drinking.<
br />
  “Dominant Dave,” he says, and raises his wineglass in a silent toast to Therese, and then turns his head and his smile toward Jeremy.

  Jeremy is cold sober.

  His eyes meet Davey’s.

  “Jugular Jere,” he says, and everyone bursts out laughing, because they don’t know what he can possibly mean.

  “Come on, partner,” Frank says. “Let’s put you to bed before you fall on your face.”

  AT TWO IN the morning, one of the Masai guards sounds the alarm. Jeremy is already awake when Frank rushes into the tent and yells, “Dr. Palmer, come quick! Something terrible has happened!”

  What has happened is that Dominant Dave has put his own 9-millimeter Glock in his mouth and blown off the back of his head.

  THE MOVIE HAS ended. The cabin of the jumbo jet is temporarily dim. In the darkness, Jeremy and his wife continue whispering, their heads close together.

  “Frank thinks he may have had a drinking problem,” Therese says.

  “Maybe.”

  “He certainly drank enough that night.”

  Jeremy says nothing.

  “Maybe he wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

  “Maybe not,” Jeremy says.

  “Anyway, it’s over,” she says. “It’s all behind us now.”

  “Yes,” Jeremy says. “It’s all behind us now.”

  He takes her hand in his own. He puts his mouth very close to her ear.

  “Therese,” he whispers, “he wasn’t drunk.”

  “Yes, he was,” she whispers. “Didn’t you see him?”

  “Therese … he was drugged.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seconal. Two hundred milligrams.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Her whisper is a sharp hiss in the stillness of the cabin. Beneath it, the jet engines drone incessantly.

  “In his wine,” Jeremy whispers. “Two big reds. Enough to knock him out completely.”

  His wife is staring at him now.

  “I went to his tent later. I put the gun in his mouth, I put his thumb on the trigger. I blew out his brains, Therese.”

  Her eyes are wide open in the gloom of the cabin.

  “I killed him,” Jeremy whispers.

  She is silent for merely an instant.

  Then she says, “Good,” and smiles, and squeezes his hand.