“He chewed it, you mean?”
“No. When he heard what it was he fainted.”
Mollie Heber Hibbs instantly became all concern.
“Someone had told him,” said her husband, “that they were to be served a great delicacy.”
“That shouldn’t have——”
The Ambassador said solemnly, “The PR man asked what it was—in the line of duty, I suspect, as much as anything. Probably thought it would look good in the company’s Annual Report or something.”
“But that——”
“Someone translated it as the liver of freshly killed kid.”
The laughter lines on Mollie Heber Hibbs’ face crinkled. “And he thought——”
The Ambassador carried on with equal merriment. “He asked if the Lassertans were cannibals and they didn’t understand the question. They thought he was asking them how the young goat had been killed. And when they told him,” finished Heber Hibbs, “he fainted.”
“Poor fellow.”
“You’d better keep your sympathy for Hamer Morenci,” said the Ambassador. “He’s feeling very sorry for himself. And only after eating raw goat’s liver, too.”
“I’m not surprised. His throat all swollen and his ears so painful.”
“He can’t speak yet,” said Heber Hibbs, adding judiciously, “Perhaps it’s just as well. At first if he could have done he would have been spitting fire. At the moment,” he added brutally, “all he’s spitting is blood.”
“And tongue-worms by the hundred.” Mollie Heber Hibbs shivered. “It’s funny how they thrive in the human mouth.”
“The doctor says they’re Linguatula serrata from the goat’s liver all right, and that he’ll be as right as rain in a few days. On the other hand Morenci says—or, rather,” the Ambassador amended this in the interests of accuracy, “Morenci writes that he’ll never be the same again. The chap even manages to write angrily. Interesting, that. He wanted to ask the Sheikh to give him his present back, too.”
“Not that lovely Audubon painting?”
“The gyr-falcon,” said the Ambassador dreamily. “The one I advised. Much as I should like the Anglo-Lassertan Mineral Company to have a watercolour of Fallo gyrfalco on their hands surplus to requirements, I told him that, if he did, that would be the end of the company’s mining concession in Lasserta.”
“I thought he was very subdued when I called at the hospital this evening.”
“Chastened is the word,” said Heber Hibbs. “He’d heard from London by then of course about the murders in Calleshire. Our precious Chairman is so glad to be off the hook over them that he’s going back as soon as he can to act on the Select Committee’s recommendations.” The Ambassador stretched out easily in his own armchair. “Ah, well, everything is relative, I suppose.” He cocked an enquiring eye at his wife. “Did I say that or was it Mahomet?”
“Confucious, probably,” said Mollie Heber Hibbs comfortably. “It almost always is.”
“Give me the China Station any day,” said Her Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador to the Sheikhdom of Lasserta. “By the way, I’ve asked that young PR man round to luncheon tomorrow.”
“I expect he’s at a bit of a loose end with his boss in hospital and speechless.”
Heber Hibbs sat back and said lazily, “Not only that but I’ve had a great idea for an advertising slogan for his firm. I want to put it to him.”
Mollie Heber Hibbs was not deceived. “Tell me …”
“Arms for the love of Allah.”
About the Author
Catherine Aird is the author of more than twenty volumes of detective mysteries and three collections of short stories. Most of her fiction features Detective Inspector C. D. Sloan and Detective Constable W. E. Crosby. Aird holds an honorary master’s degree from the University of Kent and was made a Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (MBE) for her services to the Girl Guide Association. She lives in a village in East Kent, England.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Catherine Aird
Cover design by Tracey Dunham
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1054-2
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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The Body Politic Page 20
