by Desmond Cory
Height of Day
Desmond Cory
Contents
Author - Critical Acclaim
On Johnny Fedora
Also by Desmond Cory
Map of the Kobei
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Also by Desmond Cory
A gift for you
Author - Critical Acclaim
"Readers who like their thrillers to complement their intelligence must on no account miss Mr. Cory."
The Times
"Mr. Cory may well turn out to be a British Raymond Chandler."
Birmingham Post
"A remarkable literate suspense story. Certainly Cory's name will be one to reckon with after this."
The Book Buyer’s Guide
"Cory is remarkably adept at depicting both the introspection and action, convincing the reader that the two elements of the plot are equally important."
The Mystery Fancier
"Desmond Cory is a writer of thrillers who really can write. He combines verve and intelligence with genuine skill in the use of words."
Sheffield Telegraph
"Desmond Cory continues to impress. His novels are as good as when they were first released. It's just a matter of time before they are made into a major TV series.”
Top 500 Amazon Book Reviewer
"Desmond Cory's writing is exceptional, almost to the point that I thought he was Ian Fleming's reincarnation. Cory knows how to build and pump up one's anticipation with the twists and turns in the story. The suspense literally killed me with every bated breath. The way Johnny eclipses James Bond is just as outstanding and gripping. I won't be surprised if this book is already considered a classic.”
The Coffeeholic Bookworm
On Johnny Fedora
"Johnny Fedora is the 'thinking man's James Bond' who spends his life 'dealing with the cold-bloodiest bastards on this earth."
Books and Bookmen
"Desmond Cory seems to me to accomplish precisely what Fleming was aiming at. This is a sexy, colourful, glamorous story, written with finesse, economy, humour, and full and inventive plotting."
New York Times
“Move over Jason Bourne, James Bond….Johnny Fedora is the classic secret agent we crave to have back. Gone are the silly gadgets, ridiculous stunts, and far fetched stories. This harps back to the Mad Men period of the 1950s, when agents just used their wits and the occasional volley of gun-shots”
Amazon Reviewer
Also by Desmond Cory
This is the sixth novel in the Johnny Fedora series.
Previous titles in the series:
Secret Ministry
This Traitor, Death
Dead Man Falling
Intrigue
Height of Day
High Requiem
www.johnnyfedora.com
www.desmondcory.com
Map of the Kobei
Map of the Kobei
Prologue
“THE CALL, gentlemen,” said Mr. Rosenheim, balancing himself gingerly on tiptoe, “the Call is there to be answered. As in the days of Edison, as in the days of Marconi, so it is now. This young country of America needs young scientists – men ready to tread in the footsteps of the great, dedicated to the cause of Humanity: men eager to advance the frontiers of the great domain of knowledge. Right here in this fine college – this University which I have the honour to address – are the Einsteins, the Oppenheimers of tomorrow. Yes, Sir.” He paused to wipe his brow, while his lips silently formed the words Pause for Emphasis. “And to those of you who really feel the Call – as you well know, Rosenheim Laboratories Inc. is ready to receive you: the laboratories with the finest research institute in these United States – which means in the world. And I may say that Rosenheim Laboratories Inc. is rightly proud of its association with Wayland University – from which so many of its most distinguished workers have come.”
He paused again, this time to shoot a swift, self-confident glance towards the mirror on his right. Then, with a microscopic adjustment to the angle of his profile.
“That’s all I have to say today, gentlemen. But remember – our motto is: the best jobs for the very best students. I want you to take full advantage of your opportunities here at Wayland, to prosecute your studies real energetically. In a word, to work. That’s the only way to the top in these United States.”
He stepped back, the light gleaming suddenly on his diamond tiepin. “Time?” he said curtly.
His Principal Private Secretary was already consulting a stopwatch. “Four minutes and sixteen seconds, Mr. Rosenheim.”
“Too long. That’s too long. I want those sixteen seconds cut out, right away.” Mr. Rosenheim flipped a typewritten sheaf on to the Secretary’s lap and strode magisterially towards his own desk. “Any news from New York since I started?”
“No, Mr. Rosenheim.”
“Then get in touch with Marryat and ask him what he’s playing at. Make it clear – I want that guy Jordan: they tell me his new line on Strontium looks like paying off big. Any other news?”
“Cablegram from Africa, Mr. Rosenheim. From Nairobi. Just been decoded.”
“Ah.” A faint shadow passed over Mr. Rosenheim’s face. “Sure let’s have it.”
“Reads as follows. Quote. Both birds in net. Proceeding upriver immediately. Return expected seven weeks time. Un-quote. Place of origin, Storyville.”
Mr. Rosenheim sat down heavily and fidgeted for a while with a gold propelling pencil. His silence was indicative of deep thought; and the secretary knew better than to interrupt. Eventually Mr. Rosenheim gave the pencil a particularly aggressive twiddle and said, “Fetch me the Huysmans file.”
“Which file, Mr. Rosenheim?”
“You heard me. The Huysmans file. It’s in the German section, as you ought to know. And then cut me off for twenty minutes.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Rosenheim. The Brazil report …?”
“It’ll have to wait. This thing is more important.”
The door closed behind the Secretary. Mr. Rosenheim rose to his feet again, and once more surveyed himself in the mirror.
“It’s a fact,” he said. For Mr. Rosenheim, like many another man made lonely by extreme wealth and eminence, indulged in the harmless vice of talking to himself. “It sure is a fact. This Huysmans thing could turn out to be the most important of all.”
He turned; and poured himself out a glass of water.
1
FEDORA CAME out of his fever just before noon.
At first he saw only the tightly-stretched canvas of the tent roof, green above his head. Then he saw twin tent-poles extending downwards to the rich red earth; as he watched them, they gradually merged into one. He blinked, and turned his head. In the corner of the tent were piled oddments of kit; a tin billy, a leather flour-bag, a haversack: his bush shirt and topee were pegged to the farthest ten-pole, and beside them leant the heavy .416 Rigby express. Beyond them, beyond the raised tent-flaps, was an ache of golden light that vibrated against the retina; Fedora shivered, and raised a hand to his throbbing forehead.
Demetrius was sitting cross-legged half-in and half-out of the tent, just clear of the hammer-blows of the African sun; his strange honey-coloured eyes looked plaintively across the c
learing towards the threatening green of the jungle. Nobody knew what Demetrius was. Thirty years ago, Arab slave caravans had travelled through the bush country of the Southern Sudan, following the White Nile; Demetrius’ mother – Hausa or Kikuyu or Wanderobo no one knew which – had travelled with them, fetters about her ankles. Demetrius had honey-coloured eyes that looked, not over the short stretches of the Central African landscape, but over the boundless rolling wastes of the Arabian desert; rarely did they deign to focus on an object nearer than ten miles away – or at least, they gave that impression. But Demetrius was a good gun-boy and a good cook, and was loyal to those for whom he worked; nor was he incapable of affection.
He heard Fedora’s movement and knew that it was the first for almost seven hours; therefore he rose to his feet, entered the tent and squatted down beside the white man’s bed. Fedora’s hand twitched slightly in greeting. Demetrius looked at the wasted face, yellow beneath its five days’ stubble, and at the red-rimmed eyes that still contrived an unmistakably humorous glint. “O Sir,” said he respectfully. “So your sickness has ended?”
Fedora’s tongue cautiously explored his lips. “I certainly hope so, Demetrius.”
“Let us praise Allah for his mercies.”
“Yes,” said Fedora. “Let’s.”
Both men spoke French: Fedora’s strangled husk approximating to the liquid accent of the Provence, Demetrius using the half-attractive, half-ugly intonations of the Libreville merchants’ quarter. They could probably have communicated almost as well in English or in bastard Kiswahih, for Fedora too was a cosmopolitan. He lifted his hand again as he talked, not to gesticulate but to test the strength that remained in his forearms.
“Could you get me some water, Demetrius?”
“If you wish it. There is whisky by your side.”
Fedora focused on the bottle, and managed to pick it up without knocking it over. “Good. But I didn’t want a drink so much as a shave.” He carried the bottle to his lips and tilted it; a fine thread of amber liquid spurted down his chin. “How long did this one last?”
“The bottle, sir? Or the fever?”
“I meant the fever. But they’re usually about the same.”
Fedora coughed, his whole body jerking with the effort; Demetrius took the bottle from his convulsed hand and returned it gently to the trestle table. “Four days, sir. The devils were strong in you, and had no wish to leave.”
“Perhaps they like whisky, too.” Fedora was now clenching and unclenching his hand experimentally; the muscles of his throat were still jerking from the impact of the liquor. “Strong spirits for strong devils, and … and … Hullo!”
Demetrius removed the sympathetic smile from his face; he had not seen the point of the joke, but he had realised that some witticism was ended. Now his brown face expressed only the liveliest concern. “Sir?” he said, perplexedly.
Fedora was examining his forearm, where tiny red pinpricks showed against the greenish-yellow of the skin. “What have you been up to, Demetrius? Has someone been putting the hocus on me?”
“Ah, yessir, yessir, yessir.” Demetrius executed a little shuffle on his haunches to express his delight. “It is the doctor who has made the marks.”
Fedora stared at him; he was beginning to wonder if the fever had affected his brain. “The doctor? There isn’t a doctor within three hundred miles of this place. Good God!” – as a horrible suspicion struck him – “You haven’t entrusted me to one of the local necromancers, have you?”
“No, sir,” said Demetrius, wounded. “Why, the witch doctors here are just so many dam’ ignorant idiots; uneducated, that’s what they are. This is a true white doctor, sir: his name is Mister Raikes.”
“Raikes?” said Johnny faintly. “Sounds like an Englishman. What in the name of heaven is an English doctor doing in the middle of nowhere?”
“He is a doctor to the Expedition, sir. The Expedition that arrived here two days ago.”
“Expedition? What Expedition?”
Demetrius did not know, puzzled, he shook his head slowly from side to side. He knew that white men had to be mad to travel the depths of the Congo; it was not for him to speculate as to the exact nature of their delusions. “It is a large Expedition,” he said hopefully. “Five white men, also a number of blacks. Also a white woman.”
“That can’t be true.” Johnny moved his head from side to side on the filthy pillow; green spots floated before his closed eyes. “I’m dreaming this, that’s what I’m doing.”
“No, sir, I speak truth. A white woman.”
“A white woman couldn’t live in this sort of a hell.” Johnny opened his eyes and stared angrily at his assistant.
“Demetrius, have you ever heard of a white woman on the Ubangi?”
“Only of Queen Bicktoria, sir.”
“I mean apart from legendary figures?”
“No, sir.” Demetrius shrugged. “But where there are white men, so in the fullness of time will there be white women also. Such is Allah’s will.”
“I suppose you might have something there.” Johnny groaned, and twisted his body under the restricting sheet. “Well, you’d better bring water and a razor and give me a shave. I feel perfectly hellish.”
“Yes, sir. But first of all, now you are awake, I will go to fetch Mister Raikes. He will wish to see you and talk to you.”
“Oh Lord, yes, go ahead. I think I’ll have a little more whisky.”
Johnny reached again for the bottle and tilted another stream of biting alcohol down his throat. Then he lay very still, his face wrinkled against the pain of it, with the bottle still clasped in his hand. Eventually, he replaced it and looked once more at his punctured forearm.
The evidence seemed incontrovertible; those were the marks of a hypodermic syringe. Johnny had had one, weeks before, hundreds of miles down river; but it had been stolen, together with his precious supply of paludrine, and he had been left to fight a virulent protozoa of blackwater fever with quinine and native whisky – a diet on which it had apparently thrived. Johnny had travelled four hundred miles into the Bad Lands, into the very heart of Equatorial Africa, leaving the resources of European medicine farther behind him at every step; now, if Demetrius was to be believed, they had caught up with him again. It seemed incredible.
Doctor Raikes and his Expedition. Huh.
Johnny lay stretched out on the low canvas camp-bed, his fingers plucking nervously at the coverlet, and he listened intently to the sounds around him. He could hear very far away the voices of native women, their shrillness nullified by distance; occasionally a high-pitched giggle; he could hear as a rhythmic accompaniment to their chatter the thump-thump-thump of a mortar and pestle. He could hear the never-ceasing chirp and whine of the crickets and, now and again, the crazy whooping laugh of a parrot, coming from the scrub to the west. And he could hear the jungle, the jungle moving towards him as he lay there. He could hear it, although he knew that it made no sound at all.
Johnny’s mouth puckered up; his fingers stopped twitching and gripped the coverlet until the knuckles gleamed white. The sound of the jungle was the sound of the blood in his head. That was all, he told himself. That was all it was.
He wished Demetrius would return.
Eventually, he heard the soft shuffle of bare feet on the sun-baked earth outside, and with it the subdued tramp of a pair of heavy boots. He squinted towards the tent opening, where the light was no longer so hostile to his weak eyes, and he watched Dr. Raikes make an unimpressive entry.
Raikes was a small man, clean-shaven and ruddy-complexioned. He wore a rather dirty bush shirt and shorts; he was not one of those men whose good fortune it is to wear shorts with a swagger, but at least he seemed thoroughly accustomed to them. His close-set grey eyes peered myopically into the relative darkness of the tent; then he ducked past the central pole, pushed aside the thin mosquito netting and perched himself precariously on the edge of Johnny’s bed.
“Hullo, old chap,” he
said. “Feeling a bit more cheerful?”
Johnny demurred.
“Oh well. We’ll soon shake it off now, won’t we? Ye-es.” Raikes cautiously manipulated Johnny’s wrist and passed his spare hand over Johnny’s forehead. “Quite a nasty go you had, hey? – but it’s surprising how these things disappear, once you’ve sweated ’em out. You were over the worst of it, by the time I’d got to you. Name’s Raikes, by the way.”
“Fedora.”
Raikes acknowledged the introduction with a nod. “Heard all about you from your man. Odd-looking feller, ain’t he? He tells me you’re a hunting chap.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. Very odd, that. You could have knocked us over with a feather when we heard there was a white hunter laid up in this benighted place. No idea there was a white man anywhere on the upper river, let alone on the Ubangi.”
He forestalled any further conversational effort by whipping a thermometer into Johnny’s mouth. He then picked up a formidable-looking case from the floor, opened it, and began to juggle with a selection of murderous-looking implements.
“Expect you’re equally surprised to wake up and find us here, hey?” he continued cheerfully. “Better explain, perhaps. There’s six of us. We’re the Archaeological Expedition to the Ubangi Drift Zones from Wayland University, Ohio; and if you’re thinking I don’t sound like an American, I’ll tell you right out I’m not. I’m a Londoner, myself. I just happen to be the Expedition’s doctor. My third trip, as it happens. You know, I find Africa a pretty stimulating sort of a place …”
