“Yes, sir,” the boy said with another salute.
“Go as quickly as you can,” Libazo told him. Glancing over his shoulder as the boy sped away, he saw the child skirt a camel and slip his little body through the throngs on the street faster than any man could have moved along.
16
The shadows were lengthening outside D.S. Egerton’s office window, but his temper was getting shorter by the moment. “And you actually believe that we should arrest one of the king’s subjects based on the hearsay evidence of some black beggar?”
Ordinarily, Egerton was more even-tempered. But it was late on a Friday. Perhaps he was fatigued.
Tolliver drew his chair closer to the desk between them. “I was not suggesting that we immediately charge Hastings with Majidi’s murder. We don’t want the force to come in the way of criticism for that. On the other hand, we can’t let him escape if he is guilty. That would give us a terrific black eye.”
Egerton gave Tolliver a dyspeptic grunt.
Tolliver pressed on. “Hastings has already told me that Majidi was holding his indebtedness over him. That would give him a motive to kill Majidi. Now Hastings has been found with another witness, this one in the case of the dead slave Joseph Gautura. I think that gives us grounds to bring him in for more questioning.”
“Hastings’s debt was not to Majidi, you know,” Egerton offered.
“I did not,” Tolliver said. “He merely told me that, because of the debt, he needed his trade with Majidi or he would wind up in prison. Do you know who he owes and how much?”
Egerton leaned into the conversation now. “Based on what you’ve told me about your previous conversation with him, I made some inquiries. He has bank loans that have been in arrears for some time. The total, principal and back interest, is twenty thousand pounds.”
“Good heavens. How could he have dug himself a hole so deep?”
“It seems, given his background, he was well thought of by a number of people. Three different bankers loaned him money and let him string them along.”
“Well, you must see, sir, that—”
Egerton had left his office door open, and a ruckus below in the entry hall disturbed their conversation. They both went to the balcony, which overlooked the source of the noise. Below, the child Haki was raising his voice and struggling to get out of the grip of Sergeant Singh. “Let me tell him. I have to tell Mr. Tolliver,” the boy was shouting. “Sergeant Libazo—”
“You will do nothing of the sort, you disgusting little monkey.”
Tolliver started for the stair. “No, Tolliver,” Egerton said. “That child does not belong in the police barracks.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Tolliver said, failing to suppress his impatience. “He may very well know where Libazo is.”
The noise continued below as Singh dragged the child to the front door.
“Hold him, Singh! I am coming down,” Tolliver shouted. He turned to Egerton. “Really, sir. This could be very important.”
Egerton threw up his hands more in exasperation than agreement.
Tolliver jumped down the last three steps to the landing and took the rest three at a time. As soon as he reached the ground floor, Haki stopped struggling. “I have found Kwai Libazo, Bwana.”
“Singh,” Tolliver said, pointing to the guard beside the door, “let that constable take your place. You come with me.”
Singh looked positively gleeful at the prospect of getting away from desk duty.
The boy took Tolliver by the index finger and fairly dragged him to the spot where he had seen Libazo. Singh followed along. But when they got there, Libazo was gone.
***
Carl Hastings was given no choice but to storm away. No amount of cajoling would convince the bastard al Dimu that they could become very rich if they cooperated with each other. With Majidi out of the way, they could take over everything themselves.
Hastings had started out offering the man, if one could call him that, twenty-five percent of the profits, a cut he considered generous since he would be the one taking all the risks of life, limb, and freedom. As he upped the eunuch’s percentage, he thought he was making headway, but then it became clear the blighter was just prolonging his agony while sipping copiously the good whiskey Hastings had brought him as a gesture of friendship. Al Dimu never budged an inch, not even when Hastings clearly pointed out that Majidi never did a stroke of work himself. That he caused others to break the law. All he did was make threats and take the profits.
With that, the desexed towelhead had stood up and assumed an air of righteous indignation. He sanctimoniously announced that he would have nothing more to do with Hastings, that their business dealings had come to an end the moment Hastings murdered Majidi.
What an outrage! “Why would I have murdered Majidi? He was my partner in business. I needed him as much as he needed me,” Hastings shouted, so loudly that he became afraid he would be heard out in the street.
Majidi had been Hastings’s only chance to crawl out of the hole he was in. But he was not going to say that to this capon. He would gladly have strangled the upstart on the spot, if he were not bigger, taller, younger, and stronger. He would have shot him, but the pistol’s report would have brought in a thousand of the eunuch’s neighbors.
The best Hastings could do to express his anger was empty the meager remains in the bottle onto the man’s desk and storm out of the building.
Without thinking, he made his way toward the train station. His brain buzzed with desperation. There was only one way out for him now. He could not carry on pursuing ivory. Legal ivory would not earn enough. He could not sell the illegal stuff without contacts in the Arab world, and his only contact had been Majidi. Surely there were others who bought and sold as Majidi did, but Hastings had no safe way of finding such traders. Merely asking the question of someone he did not know well could put him on the wrong side of the law.
He loathed the very idea of it, but he had to do what others had done before him. Change his identity. Start over elsewhere. They would be watching the ports. The easiest way out of the country would be through the interior. Uganda by rail. Then out to a coast, any coast. Then where? Godforsaken New Zealand? Even Australia. Anywhere but here. This place had beckoned as the choicest on earth for an Englishman looking to get rich. Bloody hell is what it had actually turned out to be.
He plowed through the streets that smelled of donkey dung and human sweat, cursing under his breath and so frightened that he was in danger of soiling himself.
***
“Hastings must have left the building. Libazo must have followed him.” Tolliver was thinking out loud.
“Yes,” Abrik Singh and Haki said in unison. “But where?” the boy added.
Tolliver put his hand on the child’s shoulder and addressed Sergeant Singh. “I will go to the club and see if Hastings went there. He will eventually. You go to the police station at the end of the Ndia Kuu and get the boys there to spread out through the town to find Hastings or Kwai. Bring word to me at the club if either of them is found.”
Singh saluted and sped off.
“I will search too,” Haki said.
The boy’s bones under Tolliver’s palm were so small. He seemed so delicate. “No,” Tolliver said. “I want you to come with me. I may need you to take a message for me. You will stand by near the club in case I can use you.”
Tolliver scanned the streets and alleys as they moved along. It was dark now. The electric lamps along the streets cast only small pools of light. Anyone could be lurking in the unlit places, made darker by contrast with the blue light of the lamps.
Hastings was not at the club. Tolliver went out and sent the boy with a message for Vera that he would not come home for dinner. She would be lonely without him. He told himself she needed to be resting after her fainting spell.
He took up a position at the end of the bar where he could see the front door, ordered a weak gin and quinine, and sipped it while
he waited. He considered whether he should speak to the management of the club about Hastings, but decided against it. This place was owned and run by a private company. The members got to make the rules about who could and could not join, that sort of thing, but he did not trust the management to put law enforcement ahead of the reputation of their establishment.
As it turned out, his vigil was much shorter than he imagined it might be.
Kwai Libazo arrived first, breathless. Tolliver brought him inside to the consternation of the Indian doorman, who himself would not have been allowed into the club if he had not worked there. Tolliver drew Kwai inside the cloakroom, where they could keep an eye on the door.
“He is coming this way,” Libazo said, gulping air. “He is not fit enough to move fast, but he is hurrying.”
“What have you found out about him?” Tolliver asked, trusting Libazo to give him the salient facts quickly and without embellishment.
“When he left the eunuch’s house, he went to the train station, first to the ticket office and then to the bar. While he was drinking I asked the clerk. He bought a second-class ticket on the next up-country train. It leaves at noon tomorrow.”
“The ticket agent told you that?”
“Yes, sir. I told him that Hastings was my captain’s father, that I was not sure if he was going to buy the ticket or if I should purchase it for him.”
Tolliver chuckled. “That was excellent, Liba—” At that second, the door opened and Hastings entered. Tolliver stepped forward and blocked his way. “I wonder if I might speak to you privately,” Tolliver said quietly.
“Absolutely not!” Hastings fairly shouted.
Tolliver felt Kwai move closer behind him. Tolliver kept his voice low. “Please, Mr. Hastings,” he said. “I do not want to embarrass you any more than is necessary.”
“Then move out of my way and let me go by.”
Tolliver raised his voice to a normal pitch. “I am trying, sir, to spare you and the club members the embarrassment of seeing you arrested and dragged away forcibly. But I will do that if you make it necessary.”
“Exactly what is this about?”
“I want to speak to you about the murder of Khalid Majidi.”
“I have given evidence in that case.” He began to reach inside his jacket. “I am not going—”
Tolliver grabbed Hastings by the wrist, twisted his arm, and pushed him to the floor. The big man went down with a loud groan.
Behind them in the bar someone exclaimed and ran toward them. Libazo headed the intruder off. Tolliver held Hastings down, reached inside his pocket, and took out a pistol. “Come with me now, Mr. Hastings. You are making a scene.”
“And you are making a mistake,” Hastings shouted for the obvious benefit of the onlookers behind Tolliver. But then the big man came to his senses, hefted himself to his feet, turned on his heel, and let Tolliver escort him out of the building.
They went directly across the road to Fort Jesus. Since Hastings was an Englishman not yet charged with a crime, Tolliver would ordinarily have interrogated him at police headquarters, but he was tired and hungry and disgusted with Hastings’s attitude. And the man had already purchased a railway ticket out of town. It would be folly to give him a chance to escape.
Hastings blustered and complained all the way, taking his anger out on Libazo, calling him a string of names, each more insulting than the last. For all Libazo reacted, the bloody bully might have been reciting the names of the kings and queens of England. Tolliver had never been more proud of his sergeant.
They marched Hastings to a small room off the corridor that led to the cells. It contained two chairs and table. The corners were stacked with boxes of tinned bully beef, sacks of cornmeal—staples of the prisoner diet, and a barrel of oil for hurricane lamps, one of which dimly lit the space.
Libazo took up a guard position at the door.
Once Hastings and Tolliver were seated, but before Tolliver had the chance to ask a question, Hastings resumed his bluster. “Are you going to take the word of that black savage Juba Osi against the word of an upstanding Englishman?”
Tolliver nearly laughed aloud at the man’s foolishness. It was no wonder anything he attempted went belly-up. “Do you understand what we now know about your illegal traffic in slaves and ivory? As I see it, you had ample reason to do away with Majidi, since he could reveal your crimes. He kept proof of your deeds, but you had none of his. He did that to everyone who worked for him, I understand. Killing him was your only way out.”
Hastings pounded his fist on the table between them. “Balderdash! Majidi could not have given me up without confessing to the same crimes himself.”
Tolliver put his forearms on the desk and leaned forward the better to see Hastings’s face. “Then you admit that you have been taking unlicensed ivory and capturing and shipping slaves? Have I understood you correctly?”
Hastings sagged. He seemed to understand that he was well and soundly on the hook for very serious crimes. “I did not kill him.”
“Why should I believe that?”
Hastings clicked his tongue. “I need money. You know that. Well, word has gotten ’round that a fortune in cash money was found in Majidi’s open safe when he was murdered.”
“Exactly how do you know this?”
“Everyone knows it. It’s been the talk of all the white men’s bars. The lads are dreaming of what they would do if they had all that lucre.”
“And how is that relevant to your activities?”
“Be sensible, man. You know what a hole I am in. If I had bashed the bastard, I would have taken the money. Why would I have left it behind? It is the lack of money that is the reason for it all. I am not saying that I would have bashed him to take the money, but if I had killed him, why on earth would I have left a fortune behind?”
It was a point Justin had pondered about the murderer. Whoever had killed Majidi was not after the money. And Hastings did seem incapable of leaving a fortune behind.
“For now,” he said, “I will charge you with slave traffic and hunting violations. I will have to see about the murder charge.” He looked at Hastings’s fingertips. Like the rest of the man, they were big and thick. They were certainly not the fingers that had held the box that killed the ivory dealer.
“You cannot prove I did any of those other things.” He seemed to be attempting to laugh, but it came out more as a bark.
Tolliver stood up and grasped the door handle. “We will begin to gather evidence. In the meanwhile, you will stay here as a guest of His Majesty.”
Hastings leapt to his feet. “See here,” he sputtered, but Tolliver left him to fume, instructing Libazo to get him something to eat and put him in a cell.
Tolliver drew his watch out of his pocket. It was nearly ten o’clock. All he wanted was some dinner, and a nap, and then his wife. In the nighttime cool, he jogged home.
When he arrived, he heard Vera at the piano before he reached the garden gate. She was playing and singing one of those popular songs she had learned on the ship: “On Moonlight Bay.” She always wanted him to play and sing those new songs with her. He found most of them silly or maudlin, though, and much preferred playing duets of Bach or Schubert. But tonight, this seemed just the thing. He stood outside the open window and began to sing along through the mosquito netting: “You have stolen my heart, now don’t go ’way…”
The piano playing stopped, but her voice grew louder. They met at the front door and sang the final words together. Justin thought to sing the harmony but Vera deepened her alto to harmonize with him, and he did her one better by taking the melody up an octave and singing it falsetto: “—love’s old sweet song, on Moonlight Bay.”
She laughed and kissed his mouth at the same time. “I have a surprise for you,” she said.
He put his sun helmet on the small table near the door and undid his jacket buttons. “I hope it has something to do with meat.”
“Not at all. Wait till you see. Fol
low me.” She turned and fairly danced to the door at the end of the hall, which led to the veranda and the back garden.
There was a paraffin lamp burning on the outdoor table where they took their meals in the daylight hours. Scores of flying insects flitted about it.
She turned her palms up and indicated a tall green glass tumbler next to the lamp. “Ta-da,” she sang out.
He reached for the glass.
“Don’t touch it,” she cried. “On that glass are Katharine Morley’s fingerprints.”
17
Kwai Libazo had changed out of his uniform into a Kikuyu shuka, the simple orange-brown cloth tied at the shoulder that he had always worn before he became a policeman. He wanted Aurala Sagal to see him for the man he was, not for the function he fulfilled in the British government. He found her exactly where he had asked her to meet him, near the small Catholic school across from the police barracks. In the light of the waxing moon, he took her by the hand to a hut on the cliff overlooking the sea, one that some Swahili fishermen used only during the day.
The men who owned the hut had agreed that if he left them “gifts,” he was free to go there after the sun went down. His gift for them this night was three bottles of beer. He also carried a lantern and a rough army-issue blanket.
Kwai and Aurala hardly spoke as they walked along. His thoughts were consumed with desire. The moonlight made a path upon the water.
He had removed his sandals and untied the knot that held his shuka at his shoulder. Glancing into Aurala’s glowing eyes, he spread the blanket on the floor and covered it with the shuka cloth. Then slowly and carefully he unwrapped the silken cloth from her body. Nothing was softer or smoother than her skin.
He lost himself in the pleasure of her.
The moonlight was gone before he became aware again of anything but the taste, the scent, the feel, the joy of loving her.
When he raised his head and looked about him, he said, “It is dark outside,” as if it were a great surprise to him.
The Idol of Mombasa Page 18
