“The roads going to be that bad?”
“Brother! You have no idea. We have quite a trip ahead of us.
Fennel scowled.
“Those other two have it the easy way… flying in, huh?”
“I don’t know so much about that. If one of the fans falls off, they land in the jungle and that will be that. I’d rather drive than fly in this country.”
“Boss…” Joe, still smiling, but uncomfortable in Fennel’s presence, pulled off a tarpaulin that covered a long trestle table standing away from the Land Rover. “You want to check this stuff?”
The two men moved over to the equipment laid out. There were four jerrycans for water, another five for gas, four sleeping bags, four powerful electric torches with spare batteries, two six foot steel perforated strips for getting out of mud, a collapsible tent, two wooden cases and a large carton.
“With luck, I reckon we’ll take five days in and four days out to do the job,” Ken said, patting the two wooden cases. “We have enough canned food to last us that time.” He tapped the carton. “That’s booze: four Scotch, two gin and twenty-four quarts of beer. I have a Springfield, a 12 bore and a .22. There’s plenty of game where we are going. You like guinea-fowl? Impala? Ever tried a saddle of Impala done over a slow fire and served with Chilli sauce?” He grinned and rolled his eyes. “It’s marvellous!”
“How about medical supplies?” Fennel asked.
“In the Land Rover… complete medical chest. I took a safari first-aid course a while ago. I can handle anything from a snake bite to a broken leg.”
“Looks like you’ve taken care of it all.” Fennel lit a cigarette and let smoke drift down his nostrils. “Then all we have to take is our own personal kit?”
“That’s it… we travel light… just a change.”
“I’ve got my tool bag.” Fennel rested his fat back against the Land Rover. “It’s heavy, but I can’t do without it.”
“Well, so long as you can haul it.”
Fennel cocked his head on one side.
“We drive, don’t we?”
“We might have to walk some of the way. Even with this winch the road up to Kahlenberg’s place could sink us and if it does, we walk.”
“How about taking the nigger along?”
“Look, friend, drop that.” Ken’s face had hardened. “We don’t talk about niggers here. We talk about natives. Bantus or nonEuropeans but not niggers.”
“Who the hell cares?”
“I do, and if we’re going to get along, you will care too.” Fennel hesitated then shrugged.
“Okay, okay, so what? What’s wrong with taking the native, the Bantu, the non-European bastard along with us to carry the goddamn bag?”
Ken regarded him, his dislike plain.
“No. He could talk his head off when he gets back. I’ve a friend of mine who’s joining us at our camp at Mainville. He worked with me when I was on a game reserve. He’s coming with us. He is a Kikuyu and a marvellous tracker. Without him, we would never get there. He’s out at Kahlenberg’s estate now finding a way through the guards and let me tell you there are around three hundred Zulus guarding the estate, but I’ll bet when we meet at Mainville, he’ll have found a way through them, but he doesn’t carry anyone’s stuff but his own. Just get that into your skull.”
Fennel squinted at him through his cigarette smoke.
“What is he… black?”
“He is a Kikuyu… that makes him coloured.”
“A friend?”
“One of my best friends.” Ken stared hard at Fennel. “If that’s so difficult for you to believe let me tell you the Bantus out here are damn good friends when you get to know them and damn good people.”
Fennel shrugged.
“This is your country… not mine. Suppose we go back to the hotel? This goddamn rain is giving me a thirst.”
“You go on. I’ve got to settle up for all this stuff and get it loaded. Suppose we all have dinner together? There’s a good restaurant next to the hotel. We can iron out anything that needs ironing out. We could get off tomorrow.”
“Okay… see you,” and Fennel left the garage and headed for the hotel.
Ken watched him go, frowning. Then shrugging, he moved over to where Sam Jefferson was working on the Pontiac.
They all met at the Checkmate restaurant which is part of the Rand International Hotel a little after 20.30 hrs. As was her privilege, Gaye was the last to arrive, wearing a lemon-coloured cotton dress and making every male eye in the restaurant stare at her with that hungry look males have for really beautiful women.
Fennel eyed her as she slid into her chair and felt sweat break out down his fat back. He had known many women in his life, but none to compare with her. He felt a white hot surge of desire go through him and it so shook him that he purposely dropped his serviette so he could bend, grope for it while he forced the desire out of his face.
“Well, what are we going to eat?” Garry asked.
They were all hungry and chose sea food on the broche and breaded veal with french fry.
“How’s it been going?” Garry asked Ken. He was aware of Fennel’s tenseness and glanced at his flushed face, then looked away.
“All under control. We have everything organized now. We could leave tomorrow if that suits you two.”
“Why not?” Garry looked at Gaye for confirmation and she nodded.
“The sooner we’re off, the easier for us it will be. The rains have started. There is a chance the rain hasn’t reached Drakensberg yet, but if it has, Fennel and I will have quite a trip. So, if it’s all right with you, we will leave at 08.00 hrs. tomorrow morning. We drive in the Land Rover… it won’t be too comfortable as we’re pretty loaded. We have around three hundred kilometres to our camp at Mainville.” The sea food was served and when the waiter had gone away, Ken went on, “Mainville is about four hundred kilometres from Kahlenberg’s place. The chopper will be at Mainville. The airlift won’t take long unless anything goes wrong. You two will stay in camp for a day while Fennel and I go on by road. Then you take off. We’ll be in touch with you on the two-way radio. I’ve tested them… they’re good. We’ll reach Mainville just after noon with luck. Fennel and I will start around 05.00 hrs. the following morning. You will take off around 10.00 hrs. the following morning. You should arrive at Kahlenberg’s place in an hour or so. You don’t want to be too early. How does it sound?”
“Sounds fine,” Garry said. “And the chopper? How about service and gas?”
“All that’s taken care of. You’ll have enough gas to take her in and bring her out. I have a guarantee she will be fully serviced. It’s up to you to satisfy yourself she is okay, of course, but from what I’ve been told, she’ll be there waiting for you and ready to go.”
“What’s Mainville like?” Gaye asked, laying down her knife and fork.
Ken grinned. “A horse and buggy town. I have the camp organized five miles out of town in the bush.”
They began eating the veal which they enjoyed. They discussed further details of the operation. Both Gaye and Garry were aware that Fennel had little to say except to grunt over his food and keep looking at Gaye. At the end of the meal, they had coffee while Ken talked. He was an easy and interesting talker and he amused them.
“You’ll have fun driving to Mainville,” he said. “I won’t be going on the highway on the last lap and you’ll see game… warthogs, Impala, waterbuck, vervet monkeys and so on. I’ll give you the dope on them when we see them if you’re interested. I was once a game warden on a swank reserve… taking people around in a Land Rover to spot game.”
“What made you give it up?” Gaye asked. “I should have thought it was a lovely life.”
Ken laughed.
“You would, wouldn’t you? Nothing the matter with the animals, but the clients finally got me down. You can’t expect to go into the bush and just find animals waiting for you. You have to be patient. There are days, especially in this season, wh
en you can drive for miles without seeing a thing. The clients always gripe… blaming me. After a couple of years I got fed up with it. There was one client who really bore down on me. Okay, he had no luck. It was the rainy season, and he wanted to photograph a buffalo. He had a thousand dollar bet with a pal back in the States that he would bring the photo back… no buffaloes. We drove for hours hunting for them, but no luck, so he took it out on me.” Ken grinned. “I hauled off and busted his jaw… got eighteen months in jail for it so when I came out, I quit.”
Fennel who had been listening impatiently, broke in, “Well, I don’t know what you two guys are going to do, but I’m inviting Miss Desmond to come along with me and take a look at the nightspots.” He stared directly at Gaye, his face set. “How about it?”
There was a slight pause. Garry looked quickly at Fennel’s flushed face and then at Gaye who smiled, completely relaxed.
“That is nice of you, Mr. Fennel, but excuse me. If I’m going to get up so early, I need my sleep.” She got to her feet. “Good night. See you all in the morning,” and she made her way, followed by male stares, out of the restaurant.
Fennel sat back in his chair, his face pale, his eyes burning. “Some brush-off,” he snarled. “Who the hell does she think she is?”
Ken got to his feet.
“I’ll fix the bill and then I’m going to bed,” and he walked over to the cash desk.
Garry said quietly, “Take it easy. The girl’s tired. If you want to go somewhere I’ll come with you.”
Fennel didn’t appear to hear. He sat there, his eyes slightly mad, his face now getting back some colour. He got heavily to his feet and walked out of the restaurant and to the lift. He was shaking with frustrated rage.
All right, you bitch, he was thinking as the lift doors swung open. I’ll fix you! Just let me get you alone for ten minutes and I’ll fix you so goddamn fast you won’t know what’s hit you.
He reached his room, slammed the door shut and tore off his clothes. He threw himself down on the bed, his nails biting into the palms of his hands, sweat running down his heavy jowls.
For more than an hour, his lewd mind enacted the things he would do to her when he had her alone, but after a while, the erotic thoughts became exhausted and his mind began to return to normal.
He suddenly remembered what Shalik had said: You will leave Gaye Desmond strictly alone… try something like that with Miss Desmond and I promise you Interpol will receive your dossier from me.
How had Shalik found out about the three killings?
Fennel moved uneasily on the bed. He reached for a cigarette, lit it and stared across the room, lit by the revolving sign across the way.
He was suddenly back in Hong Kong, coming off a junk at Wanchai’s Fenwick Street pier. He had been on a smuggling trip with three of his Chinese friends. They had unloaded a cargo of opium at Chu Lu Kok Island without any trouble and Fennel had $3,000 in his hip pocket. He was due to fly back to England in ten hours. After being cooped up in the stinking junk for six days, he was in need of a woman.
His Chinese friends had told him where to go. He had walked along Gloucester Road amid rickshaws, the fast moving traffic, the fruit vendors and the crowds of noisy Chinese until he had come to the brothel, recommended.
The Chinese girl was small, compact with heavy buttocks which Fennel liked, but she was as animated as a side of beef. She acted merely as a receptacle for his lust and when the unsatisfactory union was over, Fennel, with half a bottle of whisky inside him, dulling his senses, slept, but Fennel only ever slept slightly below the level of unconsciousness. He had always led a dangerous life and had trained himself never to become entirely unconscious, no matter how much he drank. He came awake to find the girl, still naked, her ivory skin lighted by the street light
Coming through the uncurtained window, helping herself from his well stuffed wallet.
Fennel was off the bed and had hit her before he was fully awake. His fist smashed into her face, snapping her head back and she went down, his money falling from her small hand, her eyes rolling back.
Fennel snarled at her, then began to collect the money. It was only when he had thrown on his clothes and had stuffed his wallet into his hip pocket that he realized something was wrong. He bent over the still body and a chill crawled up his spine. He lifted her head by her thick hair and grimaced as the head rolled horribly on the shoulders. His savage, violent blow had broken her neck.
He looked at his watch. He had two hours before he took off for London. He left the room, shutting the door and walked down the stairs to where an old Chinaman was seated at the desk to check clients in and out. He knew he would have to pay for his freedom.
“I’m leaving by junk in twenty minutes,” he lied. “The whore’s dead. What’s it going to cost?”
The yellow wrinkled face showed nothing: a parchment map of old age.
“One thousand dollars,” the old man said. “I have to call the police in an hour,”
Fennel showed his teeth in a savage snarl.
“Old man, I could wring your neck… that’s too much.”
The Chinaman lifted his shoulders.
“Then five hundred dollars and I call the police in half an hour.”
Fennel gave him the thousand dollars. He had been in Hong Kong long enough to know a bargain was a bargain. He had to have at least an hour to get clear and he had got clear.
Lying in his bed, watching the reflected light making patterns on the opposite wall, he remembered the girl. If she had been more responsive, he wouldn’t have hit her so hard. Well, he told himself without conviction, she had deserved what she had got.
The male prostitute he had been unlucky enough to run into in a dirty, evil smelling alley in Istanbul, also got what he deserved. Fennel had come off a ship to spend a few hours in the city before going on to Marseilles. He had brought three kilos of gold from India for a man who was paying well: a fat, elderly Turk who wanted the gold as a bribe. Fennel had done the deal, collected the money and then found a girl to spend the night with. Thinking about her now, Fennel realized she had been smart. She had got him drunk and when the time came for them to share the hotel bed, he had been too drunk to bother with her. He had slept three hours, waking to find her gone, but at least she hadn’t been a thief. Livid with frustrated rage, and nearly sober, Fennel had started back to his ship. Here, in this sleazy alley, he had met a perfumed boy: handsome with liquid black eyes and a sly, insinuating smile, who had importuned him. Fennel had vented his rage on him, smashing his head against the wall, leaving a big red stain where the wall had been dirty white.
A woman, peering out of her window, had seen the act of brutal violence and had begun to scream. Fennel got back to his ship, but it was only when the ship sailed that he considered himself safe.
Fennel often lived with his ghosts. He kept telling himself that the dead had no part in his life, but they persisted in his mind. In moments like this, when he was sexually frustrated, and alone, his past violence kept on intruding.
This third murder haunted him more than the other two. He had been hired by a wealthy Egyptian to open a safe belonging to a merchant to whom the Egyptian had given bonds as security for a big loan. Fennel understood these bonds were forgeries and they could be discovered at any moment: the job was urgent.
He had got into the palatial house easily enough and had settled down in front of the safe to open it. The time was 02.45 hrs. and the household was asleep.
The safe was old-fashioned and Fennel had trouble in opening it. As he finally got the safe door open, his tools scattered around him, the door leading into the room where he was pushed open.
Fennel snapped off his torch, grabbed up a short steel bar with which he had been working and spun around.
A shadowy figure stood in the doorway, then the light went on.
A girl stood in front of Fennel in a nightdress and dressing- gown. She was small, dark with large black eyes and an olive complexion. Sh
e could not have been older than ten years of age — in fact she was nine. She stared at Fennel in terror and her mouth began to open to scream. He reached her in two swift strides and slammed the steel bar down on her head.
In that moment of panic, he had had no hesitation about killing her. The blow, as he well knew, was lethal. She had seen him, and if he had merely stunned her, she could have given the police a description of him.
He had snatched the bonds from the safe, bundled his tools together and had left. It was only when he got into his car that he saw blood on one of his hands and became fully aware of what he had done.
Those big, terrified dark eyes often appeared in his dreams. From the newspapers the following day, he learned the child was a deaf-mute. He had tried to convince himself that she was better dead, but when he was alone and in bed, the picture of the child in her nightdress and the look of terror on her face as she tried to scream pricked at what remained of his conscience.
He lay watching the red and blue light from the sign across the way, reflected on the ceiling until finally, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Five
Max Kahlenberg always woke at 05.00 hrs. It was as if he had an alarm clock inside his head. During the seven hours in which he slept, he might have died. He had no dreams nor did he stir until he opened his eyes to watch the sun rise over the magnificent range of mountains that lay beyond the huge picture window opposite his bed.
The bed was enormous, set on a dais with a shell-shaped headboard done over in lemon-coloured silk. Within his reach was a set of push-buttons set in fumed oak. Each button controlled his method of rising. The red button opened and closed the lemon- coloured window drapes. The yellow button lowered the bed to the floor level so he could swing himself into his electrically propelled wheel chair. The blue button opened a hatch by his bedside through which his coffee tray came. The black button filled his bath automatically and at exactly the right temperature.
Vulture Is a Patient Bird Page 9
