The Idol of Mombasa

by Annamaria Alfieri

  Without Libazo’s quick thinking and brave actions, those drunks in the bar in Nairobi last year might have gotten the better of the raw, untrained police officer that Tolliver had been. Yet when the generous reward came through, Tolliver had accepted it as if all the credit for the arrest belonged to him. He vowed that he would give a portion of it to Kwai Libazo, who was standing against the jail’s ancient stone wall, looking like a mahogany statue. Tolliver looked over his shoulder at him. Libazo’s body remained frozen. Only his eyes moved, and their message to Tolliver was an expectation, a plea, a demand that Tolliver prove his basic humanity.

  Tolliver met his gaze. If he left the girls in the jail, they would be subject to the jailers’ and the male prisoners’ abuse. But suppose he let them go, they bolted, and the fingerprints on the murder weapon turned out to be one of theirs? He sighed.

  Abrik Singh knocked and entered. “I prepared a cell for them,” he said. “Shall I take them to it?”

  Tolliver looked back at Kwai. “Sergeant Libazo,” he ordered, “take these women to the cell.”

  Libazo saluted. “Yes, sir. I will guard them personally until Inspector Patrick’s report makes our next step clear.”

  He was being cheeky in the extreme. Tolliver had no idea what the thought processes of a man in love with a prostitute might be. But he conceded. “Please do so.”

  Abrik Singh made the noise that revealed he was suppressing a gasp. He thinks I am putting the fox in charge of the henhouse, Tolliver imagined. But he trusted Libazo. He shoved away any doubts in that regard.

  “You come with me, Sergeant Singh,” Tolliver ordered. “I want you to stand by at Inspector Patrick’s laboratory for the results of his analysis.”

  18

  Vera looked up from her gardening and grinned at Tolliver as he came through the front gate. “Have you come home for luncheon? To what do I owe this honor?”

  “To the Grand Mufti, I would say,” Justin answered, taking her elbow while she rose to her feet. “Whatever else it is costing the crown by way of paying for ceremonies and gatherings, one has to admit that with him in town, ordinary petty criminal activity has sunk to a low point. Hardly a housebreaking or a drunken brawl in the past several days.”

  She stood up and dusted the dirt off her fingers. “Excuse me, Mr. Dingle,” she said to the gardener. “You go on with planting the lemon trees, but once the sun is full on here, you might as well take a break and get out of the heat until later.”

  Frederick Dingle looked up at her, serious as always. “Thank you, my lady.” It was practically the only thing he ever said, except when he discussed which plants would look best where in the garden. One could hardly shut him up on that subject.

  Justin held the door for her and followed her inside. She went straight back to the kitchen and scrubbed her hands at the sink. Miriam was filling pitchers with boiled water for drinking.

  Justin took a glass from the hutch and held it out for her to fill up. When he had drunk it off, Vera took it from him and did the same.

  “It’s too hot to eat,” Vera said, knowing he would not agree. He ate no matter what. “We haven’t much in the house but some Arab bread and cheese.”

  “I want to talk to you alone. Let’s make do with whatever there is. Come with me.” He took off his uniform jacket and hung it over the back of a chair and went out to the shady veranda.

  Apprehensive about what he would say, she gave Miriam instructions and followed him. She had barely sat down when he started to tell her about the arrest of the women from the souk and the danger they were in. He paused every time Miriam came and went, setting the table, putting down a basket of bread, serving her some lemonade and him a bottle of porter. The policeman in him was ever sensitive to servants’ gossip. Secrets got out anyway, but that never stopped him trying to protect them.

  Vera was very interested in Kwai Libazo’s lady love—not that any proper Scottish woman would think of her in such terms. All she needed to know was that Kwai liked the girl. If there were true affection between them, they deserved a chance to be together.

  She straightened her back and looked across at her husband. “Aurala Sagal is such a beautiful name. Why don’t you bring her here so she can escape that horrid life? She can help around the house.”

  His jaw fell. “Are you mad, Vera? I have just told you that she has been working as a—a—”

  “Prostitute.” She could say it if he couldn’t. She knew exactly what the Europeans in the town would think of her if she let such a creature into her home. But they would be wrong. “I want only to protect Kwai Libazo’s woman. Wouldn’t it be right to help such a girl escape that life? If that’s what Kwai wants to do, to help her escape, why should we not aid him?”

  He reached across the table and took her hand and kissed it. “My love,” he said, “I know that it would not make a difference to you, but I am an officer of the law. And she is a lawbreaker. Besides, suppose it turns out that she is the murderer. That is what I am most concerned about at this moment.” He explained that Aurala Sagal’s and the other girls’ fingerprints were being analyzed as they spoke. “I have asked Sergeant Singh to bring the report to me here. Once it arrives we will know more.”

  “But you are just after telling me that Aurala and her sister are in danger from the men in their family. If you find that they are innocent of murder and set them free, it could be the same as condemning them to death. Their male relatives will kill them for doing something they have been forced into.”

  “All the more reason we cannot keep them here.” There was fear in Justin’s eyes. “What can you be thinking? If Aurala’s brothers did come after the women, they would be coming here to find them.”

  She put her hand to her mouth and reached for him. “Oh, my, you are right. I never—”

  He shook his head as if at a foolish child, which was what she felt like at the moment.

  “Is there nothing we can do?” she asked.

  “I promise I will take what steps I can to protect them. But for now, we cannot be sure they are innocent of murder.”

  Vera knew Justin had the best of intentions, but she was also sure that the police force would not do very much for a girl who had been a prostitute. “Thank you, dearest,” was all she said.

  Their conversation lagged once their food arrived. Vera picked at a tiny bit of it, but it was just too hot to eat heartily. Justin, always ravenous, wolfed down everything in sight, which made her feel even more woozy.

  “I don’t know what I will do if we come up empty with these suspects,” Justin said as he peeled an apple and offered her a slice. “I don’t know anyone who can tell me anything about the Arab community. Aurala named a score of men who might have wanted to kill Majidi. It’s easy to conclude that one of them did it and entirely another matter to figure out which one. We can’t fingerprint the entire Arab population.”

  Vera took the slice of apple and bit off a morsel. She wished she knew people and could explain things to him. Up-country, where she was born, she knew things he did not and could tell him about tribal ways, what to expect in the wilderness. Here, in a city she had only passed through as a child, she was as much of a neophyte as he.

  “The front garden is coming along quite nicely,” he said, apropos of nothing at all.

  “Mr. Dingle is a treasure,” she said.

  They took in sharp breaths simultaneously. “Mr. Dingle,” they said in unison.

  “He became a Mohammedan for a while,” she said. “He told me this the very first time I spoke to him in the Public Gardens. He may very well have information that could be helpful.”

  ***

  Vera wanted to go with Tolliver while he questioned Frederick Dingle. She insisted that the gardener was too shy and nervous to respond easily to a relative stranger, especially a policeman, that it would go much better if she were there to put him at ease. But Tolliver did not think it at all appropriate for him to involve his wife directly in a murder investigati
on. He left her sipping quinine-lemonade and pouting. He found Dingle at the side of the bungalow, in the shade, his back against the garden wall. He seemed to be asleep. He was elderly, in his fifties at least, but quite fit. By Vera’s reports he was full of energy when it came to gardening, but always quite hesitant and lethargic otherwise.

  Unconscious as Dingle had seemed, he jumped to his feet as soon as Tolliver approached. “I—I—” he stuttered, and seemed to be trying to stand at attention.

  “My wife is wonderfully pleased with all you are doing. The place already looks a damn sight better than when they moved us in here.” Tolliver watched for an indication that Dingle was relaxing. If he was, he didn’t show it.

  Thanks to Vera, Tolliver knew exactly what sort of question would open him up. “Is it difficult to find garden plants that will grow properly in this climate?”

  “Oh, no, sir. The trick is to use the plants that the Arabs have been using in their gardens for centuries. Bringing in typical English plants, as you know, is practically impossible. If you can get them to grow at all, the baboons’ll tear them up trying to find out if they like the taste. Except for irises. Now your irises will…” And Dingle was off. He seemed to be dictating a treatise on the use of irises in Middle Eastern gardens.

  Tolliver looked for the right moment to interrupt, but Dingle’s words poured forth in such a torrent that there was no opening to change the subject. He followed Dingle to the front gate where the subject changed to pest-resistant roses.

  When Tolliver finally got a word in edgewise, he blurted out his question with no graceful transition. “Mr. Dingle, I must ask you—did you know the man whose murder I am investigating—Khalid Majidi?”

  Dingle’s rheumy pale eyes look startled, then fearful. He closed his mouth and clenched his jaw.

  “You see, I know that you have been in Mombasa for a number of years. I had heard that there was a period where you practiced Mohammedanism. There are not many Englishmen who are conversant with the Arabs. I thought you might give me some hints that could be helpful.”

  “You know I am a prisoner in the jail.”

  “You were a prisoner, no?”

  “No, still am. I am required to go there at sundown every day. I am still serving a sentence.”

  This was news to Tolliver, and it was just like Vera not to have mentioned it. Still, no one in the town seemed to treat the man as anything but a gardener. Tolliver was used to English prisoners being given a great deal of leeway here in the Protectorate. In fact, they were often given charge of native prisoners on work details.

  Dingle raised his hands as if to stop Tolliver from saying anything. “I converted to Islam because I thought it would cure me of my alcohol disease. It did for a while, but the demon in me won out again. I am a very weak man.”

  Tolliver was nonplussed. How embarrassing to hear a man say such a thing. “Yes, well, but you are a wonderful gardener,” he sputtered finally. “I am glad my wife has your help. I just wonder if you can tell me anything that might be helpful about which Arabs might have wanted to kill Majidi.”

  “Oh, sir. I was studying their religion. The scholars who taught me took a very dim view of Mr. Majidi. The mosque was not the sort of place to find out anything much about his sort except that he was not a good man. But I have seen a man who may know. He is also a prisoner in the jail—Mr. Carl Hastings. I have seen him often coming and going at Majidi’s shop. It is well-known that he has been selling ivory to the Arabs for some time. Everyone who has been in Mombasa for the past few years knows that.”

  “Thank you,” Tolliver said, trying to sound sincerely grateful. Dingle was right. Hastings knew much more than he was saying. But Tolliver was equally sure that he would not reveal what he knew. “I’ll let you get back to your work,” he said. As he turned to go into the house to say good-bye to Vera, Abrik Singh approached along the street and called to him from the front gate.

  Before he took the four steps to reach Singh, Vera was out the front door saying hello. She must have been snooping near the window. Abrik bowed to her and handed Tolliver an envelope that bore the notification: Official Evidence, British East African Police, Department of Fingerprinting.

  Singh and Vera watched wide-eyed as he opened it and took out the report. Tolliver smiled into their worried eyes as he read, “None of the girls from the bazaar.”

  Vera clapped her hands together as if her best friend had been exonerated. “Sergeant Libazo will be so pleased,” she said.

  “Celebrate if you like,” Tolliver said. “But Patrick says that the size of the fingertips was very similar. Which means it must have been a woman, and there is not a woman left in town who is implicated in any way.”

  “We’d better go to Fort Jesus and release those girls. While I am there I will see if I can get anything new out of Carl Hastings,” he said to Sergeant Singh.

  “Darling,” Vera said, “You will protect those girls, won’t you?”

  “As best I can,” he said.

  “Sir,” Singh said. “D.S. Egerton asked me to tell you that he wants to speak with you as soon as possible.”

  “Wait just a moment,” Vera said. “I’ll get my sun helmet and walk with you down the hill. I need to buy some things for our dinner.”

  “I hope I may come home in time to eat it,” Tolliver said.

  ***

  Kwai Libazo stood in the corridor of the prison at Fort Jesus prison, keeping close watch on the locked door between him and Aurala and the other girls. Whenever he looked through the barred opening into the cell, Aurala was either sitting on a cot with her back against the wall and her eyes closed, or with her head close to her sister’s, whispering. He had not left them for more than a few minutes to get water or visit the privy. He had told them to scream at the top of their lungs if anyone but A.D.S. Tolliver even attempted to open the door.

  Kwai was very hungry and wondered how long it would be before Inspector Patrick and his magnifying glass would know if one of these girls had left her fingerprints on the marble casket that killed Bwana Majidi. He wished it could be a long time. But he also knew that he could not stand here forever and keep Aurala safe from the other guards. He would not blame one of those girls if she had killed the man who had made them slaves.

  He did his best to convince himself that it could not possibly have been Aurala.

  The guards had brought him precious little to eat. They insisted that he should leave guarding the girls to them, but he did not trust them. They had talked of nothing but how much they enjoyed “playing host” to prostitutes. These girls had been forced to give themselves to men for money, and the guards would now think it was their right to do whatever they wanted with them. Kwai knew he would want to kill any man who forced himself on Aurala.

  He went to the little window in the cell door and looked through. She must have felt his glance because she looked up at that moment and flashed him the warm smile she had given him the first time he set eyes on her. The policeman in him was supposed to wonder if it was the smile of a murderer. He told himself that he was not really worried that she was guilty, but that was not entirely true. After what Majidi had done to her and her sister, he could believe that she would want to see him dead. And he would have to agree. The British might say he was thinking like a savage. Kwai told himself that he, like A.D.S. Tolliver, believed in the rule of law. But he had learned, in less than two years on the police force, that the law did not always deliver his idea of justice. He went back to his post and listened to his stomach growl.

  It was midafternoon before A.D.S. Tolliver and Sergeant Singh arrived. “Release them,” Tolliver ordered.

  Sergeant Singh scowled. “The charges of prostitution, sir?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Tolliver answered. “We have too many more important matters to deal with.”

  Kwai moved to the cell and inserted a large iron key in the lock. “Request permission to escort them home, sir.” His heart was happy that Aurala would not
be tried for murder, but he knew too well what might await her and her sister outside the security of the fort.

  “Let Singh take care of that,” Tolliver said. “We have other urgent business.” He looked into Singh’s face and added, “Make sure that you take them safely to their home. And send a constable from time to time to make sure there is no disturbance there.” He looked at Kwai who saw an apology in his eyes. “It’s the best I can do.” Tolliver’s voice had taken on an edge of insistence.

  Kwai knew what he said was true. And that the sharpness in Tolliver’s voice showed he hated that fact.

  Kwai was grateful for that much, but he feared it would not be enough. He unlocked the cell and stepped back with head lowered, clenching his teeth on his bottom lip. He held his head up as Aurala filed out. She walked so close to him that her garment brushed the skin of his arm. He almost groaned. He breathed in the scent of her, held his breath, and then she was gone.

  “We are taking a detail to guard a special procession at a mosque. It seems the Grand Mufti is getting ready to go back to Egypt and they are beginning the prayers and ceremonies of farewell. It is up to us to add to the honors by guarding every event.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tolliver lowered his voice. “D.S. Egerton is the one who gives the orders, Sergeant Libazo, and don’t you forget it.” His tone was uncharacteristically harsh and could only mean that he was just as displeased with the assignment as was Kwai Libazo.

  ***

  Justin Tolliver watched the afternoon light fade while some two hundred Muslim men filed into a mosque near the bazaar. They remained indoors for upward of half an hour, and then came out, walking slowly and singing, accompanied by flutes and drums. Led by young men sprinkling rose water, they processed around the building and after circling the mosque once, returned inside. The street lamps had come on before the ceremony was over, and Tolliver and his squadron escorted the Grand Mufti and the Liwali back to their residence. Tolliver rode in the horse-drawn carriage with the dignitaries. The askaris ran at double-time behind. D.S. Egerton was waiting to greet the Grand Mufti at the front door of the Liwali’s palace.