No one answered.
“Shit,” Jack grumbled.
“Shh,” Riley hushed. “Mondele?” he insisted a little louder. “Mr. Mondele?”
They stood there a few minutes as if they’d gone to a party uninvited and no one came to receive them.
“Screw it,” Jack grumbled and impatiently went into the shadows with Riley close behind.
In a few steps they reached the back of the place. There was a crude counter there made of rough wood, with a couple of glass bottles half-full of a whitish-gray liquid, like spoiled milk, on top.
“I’ve seen some depressing bars in my life,” Jack muttered, leaning on the counter, “but this one takes the cake.”
“There’s no one here,” Riley said, looking around, barely making out a few old tables here and there with stools around them.
Then, out of nowhere, a slight cough rang out from one of the darker corners.
“Mondele?” Riley asked once again, addressing a barely distinguishable human silhouette in the darkness. “Are you Mondele?”
A cavernous voice answered from the shadows with annoyance, “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Alex Riley,” he replied, “and this here is Jack Alcántara. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Police?” the silhouette, sitting at one of the tables, asked.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” Riley said eagerly. “We’re just merchants. Can we sit with you?”
The man didn’t answer the questions, and Riley took it as a sign of acquiescence, so he grabbed a nearby stool and sat in front of him.
It wasn’t till then he realized Mr. Mondele was different than he’d imagined.
“You’re white,” Jack said, unable to contain his surprise.
“And you’re very observant,” the man responded.
“No, look . . . ,” Jack added. “Just with that name, I thought . . .”
“‘Mondele’ means white man in Lingala,” the stranger explained, annoyance tingeing his voice.
“Forgive the misunderstanding,” Riley said, “Mr. . . .”
The man seemed to wonder for a moment if he should reveal his name or not. “Verhoeven,” he said reluctantly. “Jan Verhoeven.”
“We’d like to talk with you a moment, Mr. Verhoeven.”
“It seems you already are.”
It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.
“Is that drink good?” Jack asked, changing the topic.
Verhoeven’s response was clear. “No,” he replied and drank the concoction in one sip.
“Mr. Verhoeven,” Riley continued, “we asked the men out there about a certain Mustermann who we think shipped a large load from here about two years ago and they directed us to you. Do you know anything about it?”
The man’s silence lasted longer than an honest response required. “No,” he answered drily.
“We’re not policemen,” Riley clarified, sensing that was the source of his reservations. “We’re not even from here. We came from the Matadi a few days ago and are just looking for information.”
This time the pause was shorter. “Why do you want to know?”
“I can’t give you details but I assure you it’s important.”
“Important for who?”
“We’ll pay you well,” Jack said.
“How much?” the voice asked from the shadows.
“That depends on what you tell us,” Riley replied, taking a wad of bills from his bag and putting them on the table.
Just then the light from the entrance became partially obscured. When Riley turned toward it, he saw that several men had come in the cabana without making a sound. They were right behind him and blocking the exit. Each had a machete in his hand.
Riley reflexively reached in his back pocket, where his Colt .45 rested. He slowly brought it in sight, ensuring the new arrivals saw it, and put it on the table next to the money.
Jack did the same with his old Tokarev, but unlike the captain, he pulled back the hammer with its characteristic click and openly pointed it at them.
Verhoeven gave the men a string of incomprehensible orders, and they left the miserable canteen with the same stealth with which they’d entered.
“Friends of yours?”
“I don’t get many visitors here.” Verhoeven leaned back into the shadows, hiding his face again.
“I can’t imagine why,” Jack said, looking uncomfortably at the door.
“Tell me what you know about that Mustermann and his cargo,” Riley insisted, trying to pick up the conversation’s thread once again.
There was another long silence, which, given that he couldn’t see his interlocutor, made Riley feel like he was talking to himself.
When he got impatient and was about to speak again, Verhoeven’s voice came as if from very far away.
“Mustermann . . . ,” he said bitterly. “I worked for him a while back, carrying cargo from upriver.”
“We knew that,” Riley lied, trying not to reveal his surprise. “But I need you to tell me everything you know. For example, about the dozens of boxes you took to Léopoldville and in particular the biggest one.” He opened his arms to show the size. “A box two or three yards wide that must have weighed a thousand pounds. I’m sure you remember.”
Verhoeven didn’t answer the question but leaned forward so they could see his face.
The two sailors had to work not to jump back in their seats.
The man had a scar that ran in a straight line from above his right eyebrow, though his eye and cheek, to his jaw. A white globe occupied the eye socket.
Verhoeven smiled slightly on seeing the two men’s reaction. Then he lowered his eye patch, having raised it only to make sure they saw.
Riley supposed he did that every so often, partly to intimidate and partly to amuse himself.
“Who are you really?” he hissed, staring with his good eye.
Riley considered Verhoeven’s face. He couldn’t guess his age beyond a range of forty to sixty. It was the face of a man who was alive thanks to a miracle, and the fierce look in his only eye meant it wasn’t due to his friendliness.
“We’ll ask the questions,” Riley said with a steady gaze.
Verhoeven leaned back on his stool. For a moment Riley thought the interview was over.
“I don’t remember,” he said finally, though his tone once again told of a lie he wasn’t even trying to hide.
He was haggling, Riley understood. So he reached for the wad of bills, counted out ten, and put them in front of Verhoeven.
He didn’t react at all, so Riley counted another ten and put them on top of the pile without saying anything.
“Give me all you have there,” Verhoeven murmured from the darkness, “and maybe it’ll refresh my memory.”
Riley pretended to consider his next move, then resignedly offered the wad.
A gnarled hand appeared over the table, eagerly taking the money. Verhoeven started talking again after taking just the amount of time needed to count his booty. “I couldn’t see what was in that box,” he explained finally. “And I had the impression that Mustermann didn’t know exactly what was in it either.”
“Oh?” Riley replied with exasperation. “Then who?”
“The only one may have been Klein,” the man replied as if it should be obvious.
“Klein?” Riley asked. “Who’s this Klein?”
Verhoeven looked at them intently. “You know a lot less than you let on,” he said suspiciously. “Isn’t that right?”
“Who’s this Klein?” Riley repeated, ignoring the question.
Verhoeven seemed to wonder what to say, but the wad of bills in his pocket overrode his reluctance. “Hans Klein,” he declared. “They say he’s the last survivor of the German expedition from ’35. Know what I’m talking about?”
“We heard about it,” Riley said, exchanging a look of discovery with Jack.
“And this Klein,” Jack asked, “you knew him?”
Verhoeven sighed. “No one really knows Dr. Klein,” he said. “But I was one of the few who managed to see him in person, and even exchanged some words with him. Although . . .” He shook his head. “He was the only one who talked, saying how important the cargo was and all the terrible things that could happen to me if it didn’t get to Léopoldville intact or if I talked to someone about it.” He grimaced. “Like I am with you now.”
“Don’t worry. Nothing we talk about will leave this room.”
“It’d better not,” Verhoeven said.
Riley thought it was a strange comment, but decided not to interrupt the flow of the conversation. “So, this Hans Klein was with you too?”
“Klein?” Verhoeven asked with a dry laugh as if he’d said something absurd. “No, no,” he said with a humorless smile. “He hasn’t left his hideout in the jungle for years. Let’s say he doesn’t get out much.”
Once again, Verhoeven’s response created more questions, and once again Riley preferred to ignore it. “So,” he said, “Hans Klein, who could be a survivor of that German expedition, is the owner of the cargo you helped Mustermann transport to Léopoldville in 1940.”
“That’s right.”
“And you don’t know what was in the boxes,” Jack added.
Verhoeven shook his head again. “Not at all,” he confessed. “But given how careful they were with them it seemed like they had nitroglycerin inside.”
Riley leaned forward. “And this Klein? Do you know exactly where he is now? How can we find him?”
Verhoeven looked at them like they’d asked for Hitler’s phone number. “No one wants to find Klein. Believe me,” he said. “Especially considering where he is.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked, intrigued by the response.
“I mean that no one can get there anyway,” he said. “That man lives in the middle of Mangbetu territory, cannibals that adore him as if he were fucking Jesus Christ. They protect him, but at the same time he’s their prisoner in a way. Know what I mean? Besides me,” he added, “very few people have been able to get there in recent years, and of all of them I’m the only one who came back alive.”
“Are you serious?” Riley, who had trouble believing such stories, asked.
“Completely,” Verhoeven said. “In fact many commercial outposts in Mangbetu territory have disappeared,” he added. “No one has been able to confirm that Klein’s responsible, but a lot of people suspect it’s because of him and his natives.”
“What do you mean they disappeared?” Jack asked, leaning forward.
“They lost contact,” he said. “No mail, no radio, no ships . . . It’s been a while since anyone could return alive from Mangbetu territory.”
“How long has this been going on?” Riley asked, incredulous.
“More than three years.”
“And the authorities didn’t send anyone to investigate?” Riley said. “I can’t believe they just sat with their arms crossed.”
“Last year,” Verhoeven said as if reminding himself, “the government sent colonial personnel and a detachment of solders upriver with the intention of finding out what happened to the commercial posts and the white men there.”
“And did they find anything?”
Verhoeven’s teeth stood out in the darkness once more. “Who knows? They didn’t come back either.”
Jack snorted. “Holy crap.”
“Hold on,” Riley said. “You’re telling me Hans Klein is in territory that nobody’s come back from in three years? And that’s where you took the cargo from, with Klein and a handful of natives?”
“Exactly.”
“And no one has any idea what’s really going on there? No one else has tried to find out? Not even the government?”
“There’s no one that crazy,” he said. “And the colonial governor doesn’t want to lose more ships and soldiers. Nothing comes out of Mangbetu territory but rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?” Jack asked.
Verhoeven waved the question off, apparently regretting having mentioned it.
“What rumors?” Riley insisted.
37
Some hours later, Hudgens asked the same question in Hotel ABC while an old ceiling fan spun slowly above their heads. “What rumors?”
Riley put a gin and tonic on the table, wiping his mouth with a napkin before he answered, as reticent to mention the subject as Verhoeven had been. “A kind of superstition,” he started to explain. “A myth about some ghosts that prowl the jungle, killing any European that enters.”
“Spirits,” Jack said.
“Spirits?” Hudgens asked, looking unconvinced.
“Jungle spirits,” he replied, “that kill white men as revenge for their evil.”
“How ridiculous,” he said, shaking his hand.
“That’s what I thought,” Riley said. “But it seems the natives really believe it, and since the colonial government hasn’t sent anyone else to investigate, it makes me think it’s not just the natives.”
“The fact is, something’s happening in Mangbetu,” Jack said. “All the white men who’ve gone there have disappeared without a trace. Makes you think.”
“Don’t tell me you believe that bunk,” Hudgens said, almost joking. “Jungle spirits?” He shook his head. “So stupid.”
“Maybe,” Riley said. “But it’s an awfully big coincidence that this legend popped up after the German expedition in ’35, and it’s the same location where Klein’s supposed to be.”
“But Klein’s white too, right?” Carmen asked, who’d been following the conversation quietly. “He doesn’t have problems with the . . . spirits?”
“That’s what I was getting at,” Riley said, satisfied. “If everything we’ve heard is true, the logical conclusion is that Klein’s behind all the deaths and disappearances.”
“Klein?” Hudgens said, frowning. “How could he do something like that? And why?”
“The how is easy,” Riley replied. “According to Verhoeven, the Mangbetu tribe worships him. If that’s the case, he just has to order them to kill all the white people going up the river and leave no survivors. It wouldn’t be too hard to spread the rumor that spirits are killing everyone who gets close.”
This time Hudgens didn’t say anything. It was starting to make sense.
“But, why do something like that?” Carmen asked.
“I don’t know how to respond to that,” Riley admitted. “I also don’t know why they went as far as Léopoldville with the cargo we found in the Duchessa, nor what was in that crate. We have a lot more questions than answers,” he added, “but it seems some pieces fit.”
“And you guys?” Jack asked. “Did you find anything?”
Hudgens responded by taking out a little notebook from his pocket and opening it to the last page. “We were in the Queen Elizabeth Clinic,” he said, “where they tended to the mysterious river castaway who was brought there by a native. But unfortunately all the medical records were destroyed in a fire a few years ago, and none of the doctors from back then are still in Léopoldville.”
“No witnesses left?”
“I didn’t say that. Actually, one of the nurses that treated him still works in the hospital and we were able to talk with her. Unfortunately, she’s pretty old and her memory left much to be desired.”
“And what’d she tell you?” Jack pressed.
“That the man had lost his mind,” Carmen said. “And that none of his wounds were life threatening. The worst was dehydration—and of course the malaria that gave him a very high fever—but he could have recovered in a few weeks if not . . .”
“If they hadn’t killed him.”
Carmen shook her head. “They actually found him bleeding on the bathroom floor next to a scalpel. Looked like suicide.”
“Poor devil . . . What would make someone who was saved miraculously kill themselves?” Jack asked.
“Who knows? According to the nurse he was delirious and screamed a
ll night.”
“From pain?”
Carmen shook her head. “From fear.”
“And did he say something while he was in the hospital?” Riley asked.
Hudgens nodded, then put his finger on the notebook page. “Gott, verzeih mir.”
“What does that mean?”
“In German it means ‘Lord, please forgive me.’ Seems he repeated it constantly.”
Riley squinted. “Lord forgive me? Doesn’t make much sense for someone in his state.”
“Not much does.”
“Maybe he was planning to kill himself,” Jack suggested, “and he was asking God to forgive him so he wouldn’t go to hell.”
“That’s what we thought at first,” the commander agreed. “Though the nurse told us he had a lot of chances to kill himself but didn’t do it till the third or fourth night. Seems he had one of his panic attacks and couldn’t handle it anymore.”
“And they never figured out his name or where he came from?” Jack asked, adding, “Or if he was a member of the German expedition from ’35?”
“He didn’t have any documentation on him and they couldn’t get a single word of sense out of him,” Carmen answered. “But when they took off his tick-infested rags to burn them, the nurse saw a name sewn into his pants. Zeiss, Heiss, or Weiss.”
“Zeiss, Heiss, or Weiss,” Riley repeated. “Isn’t much.”
“It was nearly illegible because of dirt and wear,” Carmen said, “but she thinks one of those could be the name, though the hospital staff just listed him as an ‘unknown patient.’”
“Well, it really isn’t much,” Jack agreed. “And the native that kept him alive? Know anything about him?”
“Even less,” Hudgens said with disappointment. “They took him to the police holding cell and he made a lucky escape the day before the German died.”
“But why would they put him in a cell when he just rescued the other guy?”
Hudgens shrugged. “That’s how things are here,” he said. “Maybe they thought the native had attacked him or tried to kidnap him—who knows? The fact of the matter is they locked him up and because none of the cops knew his dialect they didn’t interrogate him.”
“And he escaped the day before the German died,” Riley said. “Big coincidence, isn’t it?”
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 24
