The Illusion of Murder

by McCleary, Carol

  Frederick, though, is a cultured gentleman. Educated at prestigious Rugby, he told me that he had prepared to become a lawyer before abandoning law for stomping through the jungle, facing dangers, and treading where no European or American has ever been.

  When I am with him my suspicions melt and I feel warm and comfortable, even a sense of freedom, feelings I don’t often get with men. Too often a man tries to pigeonhole me into a role as helpmate, a sex mate, or a kitchen maid—anything but an independent woman with a career.

  Frederick nods toward a high-turbaned merchant who has snapped open little velvet boxes and exposed all types of jewelry to guests seated nearby. “You’ll find that most of the jewelry bought and sold in Colombo is sold in the corridor right here, in the Grand Oriental Hotel. It’s much pleasanter than visiting the shops.”

  “I heard on the ship that the gems in Colombo are a good value.”

  “Quite so. No woman who lands at Colombo ever leaves until she adds several rings to her jewelry box, and these rings are so well known that the moment a traveler sees one, no difference in what part of the globe, he says to the wearer, inquiringly, ‘Been to Colombo, eh?’ Let’s get him over to show his wares.”

  “Sounds like fun, but I can’t afford it, nor can I add anything to my valise—there’s no space.”

  “Then, you can add it to your finger or around your neck so your case remains unburdened.” He holds up his hand to quell my objection. “I know I have been a bore and cad toward you. I want to make it up to you.”

  I catch my breath. This gorgeous man is going to buy me a gem. I would love a blue sapphire to match his dazzling eyes.

  He turns to call over the gem merchant when a woman so beautiful that she puts to shame the sparkling rubies and sapphires of Ceylon glides toward us.

  Frederick pauses in mid-motion, freezing in place, and gawks as if the Queen of Sheba has entered.

  “Oh there you are, Nellie dear.” Sarah flutters her handkerchief at me. She is not wearing her netted veil, but has it in her hand. “I was worried that we’d end up at different hotels.”

  “Good heavens!”

  The exclamation comes from Frederick. It was a shout, but one that was barely audible, a shouted whisper, hoarse and full of awe, surprise, and amazement.

  I hear his quiet exclamation loud and clear, and I know exactly what the next words will be.

  “Sarah Bernhardt!”

  A man of the world, cultured and educated, would no doubt have seen her on the stage in London and Paris. His tone is that of a love slave worshipping a goddess.

  The gem merchant gives me a look and I shake my head, sending him away.

  Like all men who have gazed upon the Divine Sarah, Frederick’s mind was gone, destroyed, no longer capable of rational thought or action. At the moment Frederick wouldn’t remember to buy me a lump of coal if I was freezing.

  Scrunching back, I shrivel up, tucking in my chin, clutching my arms to my body, curling my fists, feeling small and gawky, an ugly duckling in the presence of a graceful swan.

  35

  We part for our rooms to unpack and freshen up with an invitation for Sarah and me to join Frederick in two hours for tiffin, which he tells us is the name for lunch on the Indian subcontinent.

  The invite places me in the awkward position of grinning and bearing the fact that I must share his attention with one of the most desirable women in the world … or sulk in my room.

  I graciously accept rather than succumb to my lower instincts and appear petty and jealous.

  After a cool, refreshing bath, I dress hastily and leave my room. I have an errand to run and need to get it done before I meet them for lunch.

  I decide a rickshaw will get me to my destination faster than pedaling my feet.

  There is a definite scent as we move along the street, and it is not the city making it. Besides dressing in nothing but a sash around their private parts, these rickshaw drivers cover themselves in an oil or grease. When the day is hot and they run and sweat, one wishes they were wearing more clothing and less oil! The grease has an original odor that is entirely its own.

  I have a shamed feeling about going around the town in a cart drawn by a man, but after I have gone a short way, it occurs to me that this work is the way the man earns an income to feed his family.

  The roads I’ve seen are perfect. I can’t decide, to my own satisfaction, whether the smoothness of the road is due to the entire and blessed absence of beer wagons, or to the absence of the New York street commissioners.

  My destination is the local newspaper office at which I find two clever young Scots who run both of the city’s newspapers. They are quite excited by the story of my trip and ask many questions.

  Inquiring about news coming out of Egypt, I’m told that there have been reports of murderous attacks by Mahdi terrorists but no mention of one in a Port Said marketplace, and I do not pursue the subject further.

  When it is time for me to leave, I put into action my plan of deceit.

  Knowing that the newspapermen are in constant touch with the local cable office, I pass them the draft of my cables and money to cover the transmissions to my editor in New York and to the London correspondent of the World. “Could I get you to send these off for me?” I ask sweetly. “I am tied up this afternoon…”

  They kindly take charge of the dispatches, promising to cable them as soon as possible.

  The New York message contains a brief summary of events since I left Port Said, omitting any reference to the attempts on my life or the incident in the marketplace; the London cable asks the correspondent for information about cutlery salesman John Cleveland and a background check.

  I request a reply to Hong Kong since that would provide time for a thorough check.

  Now I don’t have to worry about being followed to the cable office or being treated like an agent provocateur.

  * * *

  AS I MAKE MY WAY BACK for tiffin, I leave the rickshaw a few blocks from the hotel so I might enjoy the exotic sights on the streets, especially the snake charmers. They are almost naked fellows, sometimes with ragged jackets on and sometimes turbans on their heads, but more often the head is bare. They execute a number of tricks in a very skillful manner.

  The most wonderful of these tricks, to me, is that of growing a tree. They show a seed, then place the seed on the ground and cover it with a handful of earth. They cover this little mound with a handkerchief, which they first pass around to be examined, that we might be positive there is nothing hidden in it.

  Over this they chant, and after a time the handkerchief is taken off and having appeared up through the ground is a green sprout.

  Those of us gathered around look at it incredulously, while the performer says, “Tree no good; tree too small,” and covering it up again he renews his chanting. Once more he lifts the handkerchief and we see the sprout is larger, but still it does not please the trickster, for he repeats, “Tree no good; tree too small,” and covers it up again.

  This is repeated until he has a tree several feet high. Then he pulls it up, and shows us the seed and roots.

  Then the trickster asks if we want to “see the snake dance?”

  I say that I would, but that I will pay to see the snake dance and for nothing else.

  All of us take steps back as the man lifts the lid of a basket, and a cobra crawls slowly out, curling itself up on the ground.

  Like its Egyptian cousin, this is one of the deadliest creatures on Earth, yet the snake charmer moves casually about it, as if he’s dealing with a harmless garden snake.

  The “charmer” begins to play on a little fife. The serpent rises up steadily, its neck fanning as it darts angrily at the flute, rising higher at every motion until it seems to stand on the tip end of its tail.

  The snake suddenly darts for the man, but in a flash he cunningly catches it by the head and with such a grip that I see the blood gush from the snake’s month.

  He works for some tim
e, still firmly holding the snake by the head before he can get it into the basket, the reptile meanwhile lashing the ground furiously with its tail.

  When at last the snake is covered from sight, I draw a long breath, and the charmer says to me sadly: “Cobra no dance, cobra too young, cobra too fresh!”

  Quite right; the cobra is too fresh!

  I generously tip the charmer for the sake of his family. I suspect snake charming is not an occupation with a bright future.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how the trick is done?”

  Von Reich gives me a grin. I hadn’t seen him approaching.

  “This one is obvious, isn’t it? The snake sways to the music—”

  He is already shaking his head. “It cares nothing for the music. It’s the motion of the flute that the snake is following. Cobras are used because they seem to get transfixed by the motion and are relatively slow moving when they strike, at least compared to other snakes. That one was too young; it needs to be housebroken, so to speak.”

  “Are you staying at the Grand Oriental?” I ask as we walk in the direction of the hotel.

  “No, unfortunately, a lesser establishment. By the time I arrived, all the rooms were taken. I did not have the benefit of a seasoned traveler in these parts racing me to shore.”

  I let the remark fly by without retort, but praise the Lord that the Wartons are probably not at my hotel, either.

  The Viennese gentleman strokes his long golden mustache and gives me a look out of the corner of his eye as we walk.

  “I am hurt, Fräulein, that you find the company of that English hunter much more pleasant than mine.”

  “Not at all. I have accepted Mr. Selous’s overtures a few times because you have been busy romancing every available woman on board. Not to mention some who are supposed to be unavailable.”

  He gives me a small chuckle. “I am merely trying to give a little companionship to lonely women.”

  “Some of these lonely women I see you flirting with have husbands.”

  “I’m doing their husbands a favor, too. They can enjoy their cigars and brandy, and I can enjoy their wives.”

  He gets a big laugh out of his own wit and I join him.

  “Well, at least you are honest about your evil intentions.” I decide to go on a fishing trip. “Did, uh, Lord Warton tell you that he made some rather nasty allegations against my character?”

  “Little mention is made of you around his lordship because he tends to go into a fit of apoplexy whenever your name is spoken.”

  Another roar of laughter from him.

  “You understand, of course,” I say, “I am entirely innocent of wrongdoing.”

  “Of course you’re not innocent, at least to him. He believes you are a nosy newspaper reporter who is determined to stick her nose into a controversy over who will keep control of that ditch that connects the Mediterranean to the Red Sea.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  “I believe you have a very pretty nose. And that it is going to get cut off if you keep sticking it in places where you shouldn’t.”

  * * *

  ARRIVING BACK AT THE HOTEL, I find Sarah and Frederick waiting at the dining room door. They are engrossed in conversation like old friends.

  Putting on my bravest smile, I let him guide us to the dining room, determined not to reveal my feelings of jealousy and inadequacy, emotions I hate and would not reveal in public even if I was suffering the infamous Chinese torture of a thousand cuts.

  “I’ve stayed here before,” Frederick says. “The food is very good.”

  “Then you should order for us,” Sarah says. “We will be helpless, otherwise.”

  Oh my God—she really knows how to warm the cockles of a man’s heart. Her veil is back on. Too bad she hadn’t worn it earlier. Even worse luck, it would have been nicer if she had missed out like Von Reich at getting a room at the hotel.

  Petty, petty, petty …

  The dining hall is pleasant in its coolness, interesting in its peculiarities, and matches the other parts of the hotel with its picturesque stateliness. The small tables are daintily set and are beautifully decorated daily with the native flowers of Colombo, rich in color, exquisite in form, but void of perfume, which I personally like. I don’t know why, but many perfumes give me a headache. I believe it’s a quirk I acquired from my mother, who never wore perfume, complaining it gave her a headache.

  Frederick explains the cooling system. “Those strips of cloth are called punkahs. They are an invention of the people in this hot climate of the subcontinent.”

  The embroidered punkahs are long strips of cloth, fastened to bamboo poles that are suspended within a short distance of the tables. They are kept in motion by rope pulleys, worked by men and boys. They send a lazy, cooling air through the building, contributing much to the ease and comfort of the guests.

  As Sarah asks Frederick a question about the beautiful breakwater we had seen from the ship, I look around, soaking in the atmosphere and the scent of exotic foods.

  The people of this tropical island are pleasant and polite, being small of stature and fine of feature, with very attractive, clean-cut faces, light bronze in color.

  The hotel waiters wear white linen apronlike skirts and white jackets. Noiselessly they move over the smooth tile floor, in their bare, brown feet. Their straight black hair is worn long, twisted in a Psyche knot at the back of the head, though that coil of hair is a woman’s hairdo fashion in America and Europe.

  My reverie about the beautiful people and food on the picturesque island is interrupted by an exclamation and a clap of Sarah’s hands.

  “I’d be delighted,” she says.

  “After dinner about nine would be the right time to head out,” Frederick says to me.

  “Sorry … I was thinking about something.”

  “There’s a magic show tonight I’m sure you both would enjoy. And Sarah wants to see the famous breakwater. We can stop there on the way to the show.”

  “Why don’t you two—” I begin, my feeling like a sore thumb taking over.

  “You must come,” Frederick says. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see a performance of the world’s greatest magic trick.”

  “Please, Nellie, it’ll be such fun.”

  “All right.”

  The only thing stronger than my jealousy is my curiosity—and dread of being left out of anything. My mother says she never deprived me of anything as a child, but perhaps my fear of being left out came from being a young child in a family of thirteen children.

  While climbing the steps to return to my room, a thought pops into my head, filling in a blank that I wasn’t even aware was there.

  Sarah wore her veil to lunch.

  She always wears her veil in public.

  But not when she met Frederick and me in the lounge area. She had it in her hand.

  Why would someone who is so easily recognizable have taken off her veil?

  Finally, a question to which I have a ready answer.

  She wanted to be recognized by Frederick.

  But why would she want him to recognize her?

  36

  Sarah’s cablegram.

  The answer to Sarah not wearing a veil when we first met at the hotel came to me when I tried to nap before dinner.

  She had revealed herself to Frederick because of the cablegram.

  Stupid threat, she had said. A physical one? One that would make her seek out the friendship of a well-known hunter for protection?

  Threats of bodily harm are not sent by cable—the message had to be more subtle than that—but from her anger, there is no doubt that the contents were meant to intimidate her. Certainly it infuriated her and drove her to make contact with Frederick.

  I mentally draw a line connecting the cast of characters, as Sarah would call them: Frederick has a connection to Cleveland … now Sarah has a connection to Frederick. Did that mean Sarah has a connection to Cleveland?

  Sa
rah’s friendship isn’t a safe harbor for me. She’s part of the intrigue that began in the marketplace and that still touches me, reaching out from Port Said like the tentacles of Jules Verne’s giant squid.

  I never have been comfortable with the notion of there being two separate intrigues aboard, but making a connection between a love affair of the famous French actress, a fanatical religious uprising in Egypt, and the intrigues of great nations over control of the vital Suez Canal, threaten my small brain with a big headache.

  Since any kind of rest is futile, I pull myself off the bed. Maybe a leisurely bath will relax me for the evening that I will spend with a beautiful actress who obviously has an interest in the same man I do.

  After viewing myself in the mirror, I decide that the only way I could get Frederick to notice me when Sarah is present would be to throw myself in front of an oncoming train. And then it would only be the sound of the train’s horn that directs his attention to my mangled body.…

  * * *

  FREDERICK AND SARAH ARE WAITING for me at the carriage stand in front of the hotel when I come out.

  I keep a blank face but I find the way they stand and talk interesting for its sheer subtlety. Rather than standing face-to-face as one would when conversing with an acquaintance, they each face slightly away from one another, almost as if they don’t want anyone to know they are talking. A casual observer might not even realize they knew each other. Or had been talking.

  Why the charade? What are they up to?

  We board a carriage and set out. From the number of people on the streets, it seems that everybody at the hotel and the city at large has come out for a drive, the women and many of the men going bare-headed as a cool evening breeze sweeps in.

  When we are out of sight of other Europeans, Sarah takes off her netted hat to get the full benefit of the light breeze. She looks rather young for a woman who became an actress probably about the time I was born. It makes me wonder how old she is. I am twenty-two years old and I suspect she must be a decade past that.*