Height of Day: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 5

by Desmond Cory

  The water seemed slightly greasy, but was not as unpleasant as it looked; indeed, its coolness against his skin was very refreshing. He broke surface, spat out a mouthful of insect larvae, and struck out strongly for the bank. Two jigger-birds rose abruptly from the sedge, uttering shrill and frightened cheeps; a huge crocodile emerged from the mud bath where it had been wallowing and watched Johnny’s progress with professional interest. Johnny pulled himself out of the river some thirty yards away; the crocodile retired into invisibility again.

  “Oh Lord,” said Johnny weakly.

  He went back to find his pistol; placed it carefully to hand, then emptied the water from his canvas mosquito boots. He buckled on his belt again, assured himself that the mechanism of the pistol was still functioning smoothly, then set off phlegmatically on a course parallel to that of the river.

  Johnny had not anticipated a pleasant trip; and from the first it was obvious that his expectations were to be adequately realised. He had, he thought, grown pretty much accustomed to the attentions of the myriad types of stinging fly that abound in Central Africa; it had not occurred to him previously that a thin bush shirt had afforded an adequate protection. He soon discovered that it had. The mosquitoes and the tsetse flies, the blue-wings and the blowers, rose with one accord to feast themselves upon his naked torso; he moved through the elephant-grass and giant fern with a black coat of satisfied insects. He slapped rhythmically, hopelessly, as he went; every blow left a pulp of flies where it had fallen, and a faint pink smear of blood. Then the insects settled again; there were millions of them, all lusting after him.

  The going was very uneven. At times he made good progress over hummocky tufts of olive-green grass that sank slightly under his weight; at times he was brought up short by an impenetrable tangle of thorn bushes that took him minutes to circumnavigate. One particularly devious detour past a black and noisome thicket left him panicky lest he had lost the course of the river; he struck south, judging by the sun, and it took him ten minutes to find it again. He could use no other guide, for in that waste of head-high grass the line of the gravel terrace was completely hidden from view; and to use the sun itself as a marker was far too risky.

  It was now quite high in the sky; it had dried the moisture from his body and from his shorts, and now it was urging rivulets of prickly sweat down his arms and back and legs. The perspiration rolled over the tiny inflammations of the insect-bites and stung like fury; Johnny’s head ached unbearably and the light of the sun was like splinters of broken glass in his eyes. He moved along, uncertainly but steadily, on the current of a stream of muttered but heartfelt profanity.

  Eventually, he caught the glitter of water through a huddled patch of thorn; not to his right, but directly in front of him. He knew that at last he had reached the Kob’ei, and hurried forwards; emerging breathlessly on the bank.

  He paused for a moment to take stock of his surroundings. He had come out of the bush at a point some four hundred yards north of the confluence with the Ubangi; looking left, he could see clearly the deep V of the gorge through the northern terrace. Directly in front of him was the breccia where the members of the expedition had been working so arduously; he examined the area cautiously, expecting to see movement on the steep limestone scarp. But nobody seemed to be there; he could see, not far from the distant bank, the twisted scars torn in the slope by the dynamite charges, but there were no signs of human activity there at the moment. Perhaps they had moved on farther, towards the ridge …

  The grasses swayed near the base of the breccia, and Johnny turned instantly to watch the spot. A jackal emerged sleepily; close enough for Johnny to see its long tongue run swiftly over its chops. It lifted its tail and began to lope easily down to the river; while Johnny was watching it, the locali began to beat in the bush.

  Johnny’s eyes narrowed painfully as he tried to trace the source of that jittery thumping; it was coming not from the camp, but from the jungle behind it. And it meant that something was up. There was no tribe within sixty miles of the Kob’ei, and not even the jungle telegraph could carry a message over such a distance in the daytime. The locali was not sending a message this time, but making a proclamation; it was being put to some ritualistic use. Johnny looked again at the breccia, this time in irritation; and wondered where the hell everybody was.

  He waded into the river, taking his pistol from its holster as he went; then, holding it carefully clear of the water, struck out one-handed for the opposite bank. Here at any rate, there were no crocs; the current was too strong, carrying him yards downstream. That didn’t matter; it was taking him in the direction he wished to go. The sedimentary gravel of the bottom scraped his knees; he rose to his feet, swaying as the Kob’ei dragged at his ankles, and splashed his way to the shore.

  The jackal saw him coming, and lifted his upper lip in a warning snarl; then turned and slunk away towards the bushes, limping deliberately with its off hind foot to show how little it really cared. Johnny walked wearily over to the place where it had been sitting, then stopped and spent several seconds inspecting Raven’s corpse.

  The professor had been shot in the back of the head.

  The rattling log was still sending eerie thrills of sound towards the hills; and perhaps by association of ideas, Johnny immediately thought that the Professor had been killed by the Masai, that the nature of the wound was symbolical. So strongly did this idea strike him that he looked uneasily around him, half-expecting to find the lower slopes of the breccia littered with other corpses. Then he saw the fragment of rock that lay just clear of Raven’s outflung right hand, and stooped to pick it up.

  It was a piece little larger than a pebble, rounded and buffeted by the river that had carried it down from the hills to the north; brown and faintly veined with certain quartz-like markings. Johnny turned it over and over in his hands, and knew that Raven had made, before his death, yet another remarkable discovery. He might even have had time to comment upon it before he died.

  The drum was still knocking away in the bush. Johnny slipped the pebble into his trousers pocket, dropped the pistol into its holster, and set off downstream, heading towards the camp. His fingers made meticulous adjustments to the holster as he went, bringing it a fraction forward, easing the buckle, setting the pistol-butt in perfect alignment with the carefully-sewn gap in the canvas that made the weapon so smooth to draw. He still did not know exactly what the locali was saying, but he was sure it meant trouble.

  He followed the path that had been partially flattened by Raven and by his helpers, a path that swung round beside the river and emerged at the camp just clear of the point where the Circe was standing at her moorings. Johnny stood for a moment looking at the little boat, for steam was rising lazily from her funnel; looking also at the body that lay sprawled on the very verge of the river and at the thin trail of blood that veered crazily back from it over the rich green grass. Then he pushed the hair back from his forehead and – for the first time that morning – ran.

  “Demetrius,” he said hoarsely, kneeling by the prostrate figure. “What madness has seized everybody?”

  He raised Demetrius’ head with an effort; the honey-coloured eyes focused, for once, squarely upon his face. A pale pinkish-white froth had gathered over the boy’s lips; when he opened his mouth to speak, a red bubble dribbled horribly down his chin.

  “Go,” said Demetrius. “You must go at once.”

  Johnny unbuttoned the boy’s shirt, and wiped his stained mouth clean with the collar. He could see the bullet-hole in the smooth brown skin well beneath the right collar-bone; the lungs had been badly punctured and he knew as he saw it that Demetrius would die.

  “Sir, the locals have run into the bush because they are afraid. They will come back soon, and then they will kill. You must take the boat and go.”

  “There’s plenty of time,” said Johnny gently. “Who shot you, Demetrius, and why?”

  “Mister Banfield, sir. He has also killed Mister Raven, for I h
eard him say so.”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “He is still here, sir. Only Mister van Kuyp has gone.”

  Demetrius turned his head sideways and made an unsuccessful attempt to vomit. “Mister Banfield and the girl are here; but soon they will take the boat and go. If you are quick … you can take the boat first.”

  “Don’t worry, Demetrius. Try and tell me what happened.”

  Demetrius’ eyes turned up to the sky, as the effort of remembrance fought to overcome the numbing presence of pain. Then he said, “They came back from the hills, sir, Mister Banfield and van Kuyp. They seemed very angry. When they found that Mister Schneider had left the camp, they were more angry still. They seized … Miss Schneider … and took her to the tent … and beat her …”

  “Take it easy,” said Johnny. “Take it good and easy.”

  “I tried to stop them.” Demetrius drew in a long deep, shuddering breath. “So Mister Banfield shot me. It was said that you had gone to the bush with Mister Schneider; I knew this was not true. I knew you would not go away without me. So I came down here … to the boat … to wait for you and warn you.”

  “I would have been much quicker, if I had known.”

  “You are here now, so all is well. They were asking the girl … where her brother had gone. Where her father was. This, I thought you should know.”

  “Yes. Did she tell them?”

  Demetrius shook his head and coughed. “I cannot say. But Mister van Kuyp has gone. With rifle and rucksack. Into the hills.”

  “Has he a rifle?”

  “Doctor Raikes’ rifle.”

  “Talk no more,” said Johnny. “Talking must cause you pain. And your pain now is ended.”

  “That is so. It was ordained from the beginning, and now it is ended.”

  “Shall I lay you down to rest?”

  “Yes, lay me down. Then take the boat and go. I shall go with you in spirit.”

  Johnny lowered the boy to the ground again, slowly and gently. “Die in peace,” he said, using the formal phrase. “As I shall do in time.”

  “Allah will make hell easy for you,” said Demetrius; and smiled; and winced. Johnny sat back on his heels to watch Demetrius die. It did not take very long, now that he was free to go.

  When it was over, Johnny closed the staring honey-coloured eyes and picked up the body; it seemed incredibly light. He carried it up the Circe’s gangplank and laid it down on the deck. Then he turned and, without looking back, walked away towards the tents. There was a certain rhythm about his movements, an uncharacteristic stiffness, and this was the only thing that revealed the state of Johnny’s emotions.

  He was angry.

  He raised his head as he walked and looked towards the hills; the locali had ceased its ominous mutterings some minutes previously, and now everything was still under the morning sun. The brilliant glare caught the highlights on Johnny’s bronzed skin as his muscles pushed him onwards; the deep shadowy dent of his spine, the ridge of his shoulders, the fine wiry sinews that interplayed across his chest and biceps. A cloud of flies still buzzed about his head, but no longer tried to settle upon him; it would have been fanciful to imagine that his rage created a tangible aura about him, but for all that, the flies were leaving him alone. Insects never settle on a lion that is waiting to charge.

  Johnny entered the main line of the tents and saw Banfield almost at once, not ten yards away; standing with his back to him and sucking thoughtfully at his knuckles. Johnny stopped and stood stock still; Banfield went on sucking his knuckles and leaning against the flap of Madrid’s tent. He was wearing his pistol-belt. Johnny was glad of that.

  Madrid herself was lying on the ground half-in and half-out of the tent. Demetrius’ information had been correct: she had indeed been beaten. Johnny was unable to see her face, for Banfield screened it from his view; he could see that her shirt had been torn into strips and that her arms had been tied behind her; vivid red weals ran across them and over her naked shoulders. Hippo-hide whips are made for donkeys, but they can do an effective job on human beings, too.

  “… Do I have to hit you again,” said Banfield, not unpleasantly, “or are you going to walk?”

  If the girl made any reply, Johnny didn’t hear it.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Banfield. He made an impatient gesture, then crouched down beside her. Johnny could see the sweat glistening on the line of his lowered neck. “Those blacks are coming back, and when they do you’re going to get a spear through your guts. You don’t want that; and I don’t want that, either. I’ve got other things in mind for you. So get up and walk, you bloody-minded little bitch.”

  Madrid made an equally uncomplimentary remark that Johnny barely caught. Banfield instantly embarked on a long string of softly-muttered blasphemy, caressing each word as though it embodied an enjoyable and entertaining experience. “… whether you like it or not,” he concluded. “And you’ll like it. Oh yes, you’ll like it. And if you won’t come down to the boat to get it, then by God I’ll give it to you now – and we’ll see how you feel after that.” He extended a large and rapacious hand towards Madrid’s breasts; Madrid offered in exchange a commendably vigorous kick, which, however, failed to reach its target. Banfield’s fingers closed over her knee and twisted it viciously, rolling her on to her back. The girl’s face came into view as he bent avariciously over her; and Johnny decided that the scene had perhaps gone on long enough.

  “Banfield,” he said, not loudly.

  Banfield went still; and did not move again until a long three seconds had passed. Then, slowly, he turned; his face, unhealthily flushed, appeared over his right shoulder. He surveyed Johnny blankly; then, even more slowly, scrambled to his feet. “Fedora,” he said, rather thickly.

  “You killed Demetrius. What are you waiting for?”

  Banfield looked at Fedora uncomprehendingly; saw that the other man’s arms were folded across his chest. His own hand was by his side, not six inches from the butt of his pistol … “Waiting for?” he said mildly, inching his hand stealthily nearer his holster. “I don’t know what you mean …”

  His fingers touched the butt as he spoke the last word, and grabbed. He had time to lift the barrel clear of the holster before Fedora’s bullet took him just over the buckle of his belt, causing him considerable pain. It is, indeed, perhaps the most unpleasant of all places in which to accommodate a bullet, and Fedora was well aware of the fact. Nevertheless, he lowered his pistol hand and waited for fifteen seconds before he fired again. He was not normally a vicious or even an unkind man; but he had lost his temper completely. Which was certainly unfortunate for Banfield. Under certain circumstances, fifteen seconds can be a very long time indeed.

  The sun, to whom fifteen seconds were fifteen seconds no matter how they were passed, continued to swing up towards its zenith. Banfield lay looking it straight in the eye, his mouth open in shocked surprise. Johnny stood still, looking at the wisps of smoke trickling up from the barrel of his pistol; Madrid lay still looking through badly-puffed eyes at Johnny. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Fedora.

  Eventually Johnny pushed the pistol back into its holster and, still without looking at the girl, walked off to his own tent. There he found a clean shirt and put it on; then, slowly and methodically, he packed his rucksack. Finally, he swung it over his shoulder, emptied the whisky flask down his throat, picked up the Rigby express and went out again.

  He knew that the delay had been of no use. He walked back to Madrid’s tent with that terrible cold anger still curdling his stomach. She was still lying where he had left her; he lowered his rucksack and rifle to the ground, and stood looking at her with an impassive deliberation. He noted every detail of her appearance as though memorising the outlines of some incomprehensible modern painting; the swellings beneath her eyes, the angry knuckle-marks on her mouth and chin, the long red tramlines criss-crossing the brown roads of her shoulders; finally the firm breasts thrusting against the pull
of the crumpled brassiere and the long, contorted legs; all this without any real consciousness that what he was looking at was a woman. Fedora was still feeling very cross indeed.

  “You might at least cut me loose,” said Madrid, speaking with some difficulty

  Johnny took his knife from his pocket, stooped down and cut the ropes that bound her. He straightened up again, and watched her struggle awkwardly to her feet.

  “Because of you,” said Johnny, not quite knowing what he was saying, “Demetrius is dead. Banfield killed my friend, because of you.”

  He hit her on the mouth, not quite with all his strength. The blow was still hard enough to knock her spinning. She crashed backwards into the shade of the tent, hitting the pole as she went; then lay on the floor supported by her elbows, shaking her head muzzily from side to side. Her face was a mist of waving fair hair; Johnny watched her for a moment, then followed her inside.

  “Get up,” he said crisply. “Come on, get up. I’ll have to get you out of here, though Heaven only knows why.”

  Madrid got to her feet, even more slowly and painfully than before. Her eyes were completely devoid of any expression at all; Johnny stood with his legs straddled, making no move to help her. She leant against the pole for a moment, as though collecting her wits; then came at him like a tiger.

  The ferocity of her attack took Fedora completely by surprise; he was barely able to take her with him as he fell. Four finger-nails raked like razors across the side of his face, and then again at his neck, tearing away the sticking-plaster in one agonising stroke; Johnny threw her off him and rolled his weight on top of her, conscious of a strange reluctance to hit this infuriating girl again; and conscious of something else, of another sensation born of the contact of smoothly flowing skin against his fingers and of an incredibly yielding softness under his body. His right hand twined itself savagely in her hair, pulled her head down to the ground; guided by the pressure against his fingers rather than by sight, he found at last what he had been looking for. The lips resisting his own so furiously seemed to draw the anger away from him in great, surging waves, leaving only an urgency of possession; he therefore felt no surprise when the lips abandoned their resistance and took on, insensibly, something of that same urgency. When he finally raised his head, he looked down on the swollen little face beneath him with a curious tenderness; he saw that the blood from his torn neck had smeared her shoulders, and knew that this was not the blood of death but of thrusting life and of birth, the blood that fertilised the teeming jungle around them. For this was not Europe but Africa, where values had different meanings.