“I have a request for a purchase.”
The man said nothing.
“Four fluid ounces of Sydenham’s Laudanum.”
The man looked up.
“You have prescription?”
Finch shook his head.
The man waved his hand as if to shoo Finch away.
“Must have prescription from doctor.”
“I am a doctor.”
“Doctor not need come. Doctor send errand boy.”
A nameplate on the counter bore the name Mr Dev Mokani. The man broke off again to address his unseen colleague behind him, in Gujarati, Finch guessed.
“Mr Mokani …?”
The man turned, momentarily perplexed by the familiarity.
“I repeat, I need to purchase four fluid ounces of laudanum.”
“Laudanum very scarce. Not cheap. Especially now, with war.”
“I understand.”
“Priority is Royal Army Medical Corps.”
Finch produced his identity card.
“Captain Ingo Finch of the RAMC,” he announced. “I am currently out of uniform, on leave.”
Mr Mokani examined it, then disappeared into the back of the store with it where the instruction of his unseen assistant continued in earnest. It seemed to take an extraordinarily long time and with a great deal of yelling, the clanking of a typewriter and the repetition of Finch’s name and rank to boot. But, eventually, the chemist returned with a bottle which he flashed briefly before Finch and popped into a small brown paper bag.
“Six shillings and sixpence.”
He’d already put the price up, noted Finch.
Finch opened the bag and pulled the bottle out – same kind, same label as the empty one in his pocket, only this time with his own name upon it.
“Is this how you sell the drug?”
“What do you mean?”
“No instructions?”
“You are doctor,” said Mr Mokani. “You know dosage. Six shillings and eight pence.”
“Sixpence.”
“That is what I said.”
He lowered his head and continued ticking off items. He patted the counter, indicating that Finch should deposit his coins.
“Mr Mokani, I have a confession …”
The chemist looked up, brow wrinkled.
“… I am not actually here about laudanum. Well not this laudanum anyway.”
He placed the bottle on the counter. The man huffed.
Finch reached into his pocket and produced Cox’s bottle. He showed the label to the chemist.
“This was purchased from your store on the 24th of December. Christmas Eve. I am afraid that the army officer overseeing the purchase is … no longer with us. But, as a physician, I am concerned that the drug you sold him has been misused.”
The man grew even more irritable.
“Misused?”
He snatched the bottle and examined the label.
“If this … Major Cox … has a problem with my service then I will wait till he is with us.”
Finch let the silence linger.
“I’m afraid, when I say that he is no longer with us – I mean that he is deceased.”
Mr Mokani shrugged.
“How did he die?”
“Laudanum poisoning.”
“Oh.”
“Now. Do you think you can help me?”
The man suddenly looked worried. He barked some more Gujarati over his shoulder.
“Are you sure was laudanum poisoning? Maybe something else.”
“That’s what the Cape Town district coroner has ruled.”
The invoking of the authorities made the chemist uncharacteristically compliant.
“I remember the man,” he offered. “RAMC identification, like you. But in different officer uniform. Cavalry.”
“Are you sure, Mr Mokani?”
“Yes. Yes. Portly fellow. Belly.”
Finch was experienced enough at all this by now to know that a slight twisting of the truth could be employed to great effect.
“As the cataloguer of Major Cox’s personal effects, there appeared to be no instructions evident with his bottle of laudanum either.”
“He was doctor, like you. Not need.”
“He wasn’t. An RAMC officer yes, but a lay person, not a medical professional. Such a thing – a leaflet or sheet containing recommended dosages, side effects and so forth – should have been supplied, tied to the bottle. I’m afraid you have breached pharmacist’s rules, Mr Mokani. Something I would be compelled to report. Unless—”
“Unless what?”.
“If you remember Major Cox, you’ll recall he was co-signing on behalf of somebody else. Do you remember who? If you could give some clue as to his identity—”
“Why?”
“Because I believe he may have been the one who wilfully administered an overdose of the drug to Cox.”
“I do not understand.”
“Whether you understand or not is by the by, Mr Mokani. I just need to identify the other person.”
Mokani rubbed the back of his head. He screwed his face up.
“Was a man.”
A man? Finch had always assumed the other person was male but now admonished himself for automatically eliminating 50 percent of his suspect pool.
“A gentleman,” Mr Mokani added.
Finch was beginning to tire of this particular designation. Most of those so-called over the past few days had proved to be anything but.
“Well-dressed … Yes, yes, I remember,” Mokani continued, warming to his new purpose. “Afterwards, two men argue. Outside. On pavement. Waving arms. Raised voices.”
The man suddenly disappeared, ducking down below the counter.
“Mr Mokani?”
No response.
“Mr Mokani, I must insist—!”
But Finch could hear him rummaging before reappearing with a narrow wooden drawer pulled from a filing cabinet into which various receipts, invoices and slips had been filed, separated by index cards.
“It’s recorded, the man’s name’s recorded?!” yelped Finch.
Mr Mokani yelled at his assistant again then started flicking through.
“… 22nd, 23rd, 24th,” he went, stopping at the correct date. He pulled out a clump of chits and rifled through, placing them into a pile as he went, like a croupier counting winnings at a casino.
“Here.”
He stopped at the one he had been searching for, handwritten on his store’s stock, pale green stationery.
Finch did no wait to be offered it. He snatched it up.
“Hey!”
What Finch read not only confused him, but suddenly infused him with a paralysing fear.
* * *
Rideau returned to the sitting room.
“He’s a good fellow but quite headstrong,” he said of Finch.
“Stubborn is a better word,” said Annie.
Rideau smiled.
“But he’ll find the information he needs,” she added.
“You mean like on your little excursion to Stellenbosch?”
“Exactly. No stopping him once he’s got the scent.”
“I just hope he’s careful. If the police, regular or military, pick him up, he’ll be up before a court-martial. Men have been shot for less.”
Any sense of mischief suddenly evaporated. Rideau looked embarrassed for his lack of tact.
“You really think they’d do that?”
“I don’t make light of it, Miss Jones. There’s a war on. Little sympathy for miscreants when brave men are dying by the thousand.”
He checked his words.
“… not that Finch isn’t being brave. Far from it. I think to have pursued this thing … whatever this thing might be… has demonstrated remarkable fortitude.”
“Stubbornness,” said Annie.
Rideau couldn’t help but raise a smile again.
“But listen, have to stay positive. Get to the bottom of it and the poli
ce … Brookman … will explain the whole situation to the army personally. I’m sure of it. And if your captain has the ear of his new CO like he says, I’m sure this will be straightened out. Not only that but we can find out finally what the hell this thing is we’ve all been caught up in.”
He came over to take her plate. There was barely a crumb remaining.
“Look, no point moping about … Miss Jones, please don’t be coy, but I’m guessing, from the looks of things, that you’re still a bit peckish.”
She nodded mischievously.
“Being a fugitive from justice burns a lot of energy.”
“In which case let me rustle you up something else.”
She went through a charade of polite protest.
“Come, come, it will be my pleasure.”
He beckoned for her to follow him through to the kitchen. Inside it was scrupulously neat, the pots and pans hanging from an overhead rack, scrubbed as shiny as mirrors, the shelves packed with bottled oils and spices. A string of fresh garlic dangled. There was a train of dried, purple chillies.
In the centre was a wooden work surface, again immaculately clean. On the far side was a range with a wood burner underneath. The flames were flickering.
“An omelette, Spanish omelette … tortilla?” he said. “I have fresh eggs, onions, garlic, peppers, ham. Cream from the dairy this morning. No chorizo unfortunately, but then you can’t have everything.”
“A what?”
“Cho-ree-tho. Kind of spicy sausage.”
She was leaning in the doorway. She hoped she didn’t sound ignorant.
“Sounds good,” she said.
He twirled a heavy frying pan, put it on the range and, with a theatrical flourish, drizzled some olive oil from an unnecessary height.
“Forgive my excesses. I was in Valencia a couple of years ago. Couldn’t resist taking a cookery course. The chefs were all big show-offs.”
“You’ve been to Spain?”
“All over Europe,” he explained, passing her a chopping knife and a large white onion. “If you don’t mind … Will speed things up.”
“Not at all.”
“Part of the fun of researching the fruit-canning business. The Mediterranean mainly. Valencia for the oranges, south of France, Italy … Greece for the olives. Then sailed from Marseilles to the United States. Spent most of my time in Florida. Oranges again, bigger ones. Then down to Uruguay … town called Fray Bentos. A British company has started canning corned beef there. Meat not fruit, but same principle.”
He joined her at the work area, thumping open a bulb of garlic.
“You’re a well-travelled man,” she said.
“Bloody itinerant more like, if you’ll pardon my French. Was born on the hoof. Canada. Grew up in India. Now here. I sort of crave inertia, actually.”
He tossed the onions and garlic into the pan. After months of hospital and army stodge, Annie found the smell intoxicating.
“But look at you,” he said. “Australia … South Africa … You’re a volunteer, so must have a sense of wanderlust, a taste for adventure … Either that or you’re running away from something.”
She fixed her eyes downward.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”
She looked up.
“It’s quite all right. I guess you could say it’s a case of both.”
He kept her busy, showing her the best way to gut and slice a green pepper, with the ham lined up next for dicing. He cracked six eggs into a bowl, added cream and began to whisk.
“You know I’ve been to Australia, too. Wonderful place. Like the Cape in many ways – the climate, the lifestyle. Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane. Of course, they teased me something rotten and quite mercilessly. I mean me, this exotic fruit …”
Annie wondered whether this was a turn of phrase or a private confession.
“…but I tell you, Miss Jones, once you’ve weathered the storm, you’re in the club. There’s nothing they won’t do for you.”
The pan fizzed into life.
“They … we can be a bit brutal.”
With the ingredients cooking up nicely, Rideau poured on the egg mixture.
“I can add a few crumbs of crushed chilli. Will blow your socks off.”
She shook her head.
“Probably a wise decision.”
The contents of the pan were coagulating nicely.
“Only question is do we save some for old Finchy, or scoff the lot?”
Her conspiratorial chuckle suggested the latter.
“Right you are. Mum’s the word.”
There were two wooden stools alongside the work counter. He gestured that they should eat there. While she made herself comfortable, he arranged the plates and cutlery.
She hadn’t seen him do it but, evidently, he had uncorked some wine. Two cold glasses of a pinkish hue had been placed before them.
“A Grenache rosé,” he said. “I tell you, the Cape’s got a lot going for it.”
She raised her glass. Rideau clinked his against it.
“To Finch,” he said.
“To Finch,” she replied.
To complete the epicurean overload, Rideau slid a hot and colourful half-moon of fluffed omelette onto her plate.
“Bon appétit.”
So perfect did it seem to her she was compelled to eat in silence, savouring every morsel.
Rideau took it as a compliment. Only when he was fully satisfied that she had finished and, with great insistence, couldn’t possibly manage another mouthful of anything else, did he clear the plates and take them to the big, deep enamel sink.
She rose to help him and stood at his side.
“No, no, I insist,” he said.
He turned on the tap and fetched a scrubbing brush and a small box of soap flakes from the shelf above. While the water ran, he removed his silver cufflinks, placed them on the sideboard and began rolling up his sleeves.
It was then that Annie saw it, down the inside of his left forearm – a contusion, a line in blue and black.
Chapter Fifty
Finch clutched the chit, absorbing the word, then dropped it in disgust. He did not really know what he had expected to discover inscribed there next to Cox’s name – maybe that cursed moniker Moriarty, maybe someone else’s entirely – but there it was, in stark, typed, black and white: ‘Mr A. N. Rideau.’
There could be little doubt that Rideau – perceived ally Rideau, a man in whom they had just confided their secrets – was most likely complicit in Cox’s murder; his professed act of caring for his old colleague just bogus – a front, a means, probably, to extract further information from them.
Not just today, but in the restaurant. Yes, he too had enquired after Moriarty, hadn’t he?
And Annie … Annie had been left alone with him.
Instinctively, Finch turned and rushed to the door. He then stopped and raced back to scoop the piece of paper from the counter.
“My invoice,” yelped Mr Mokani.
The doorbell jangled and Finch disappeared, at which the chemist came out from behind his counter and skittered onto the pavement after him. Finch, hobbling as fast as he could, was already round the corner.
“You are thief!” bellowed the chemist. “Stop thief!”
The commotion caused heads to turn. A woman in a bottle-green dress asked if everything was all right. An older, grey man in a top hat, his much younger wife on his arm, stopped to gawp.
A passing Cape policeman came over.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
Mr Mokani huffed and puffed back.
“This man here,” explained the first woman. “He claims to be the victim of a robbery.”
“Not claims. I am victim,” Mr Mokani corrected.
The policeman eyed him up and down as if his accusations were to be regarded with more cynicism than that of a white man.
“Please. You must chase!”
“This is your shop?” asked the policema
n, evidently uninterested in pursuit.
“Not shop. Pharmacy. But please. Man he get away!”
“A chemist’s,” chipped in the woman helpfully.
“And who stole what exactly?”
“Man. Stole invoice. Run away. Limping. You catch him.”
“An invoice?”
“A bill,” offered the man in the top hat.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” quipped the copper. “He can come and steal my bills if he wishes.”
A few onlookers chuckled.
The man in the top hat felt compelled now to tender an opinion in Mokani’s defence.
“Keeping one’s books in order is paramount to good business practice,” he trumpeted.
“If you say so, sir,” said the policeman.
“I do say so.”
“And so do I,” said Mr Mokani.
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“I am smart. I am also out of breath.” He waved towards the corner. “You must apprehend thief. Quickly.”
“Who was this man?” asked the policeman.
Mr Mokani pointed up towards the corner.
“Hurry or you lose him.”
“Who?”
“This man …”
Mr Mokani pressed a brown folded card into the policeman’s hand – Finch’s military identity card. The policeman opened it and, in an instant, put his whistle to his lips. A sharp blast and a colleague was running up the pavement towards him, pushing people out of the way, eliciting grunts of disapproval.
“Him,” said the first policeman, flashing the card, pointing at the name. “It’s him!”
* * *
Rideau began rolling his left sleeve back down, though he knew there really was no point. He had registered the flicker of shock on Annie’s face, even though she had sought to mask it.
“I’m afraid you weren’t supposed to see that.”
He reached behind him to untie the apron and, in the same move, produced his revolver. She had assumed he had put it aside, but it had been there all along, tucked into his waistband behind him.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Jones. I had been enjoying your company so. You are a most convivial guest.”
He shook down his sleeve. She could not help but look at the bruising. He was an enthusiastic auto-injector.
“I’m afraid you must forgive my little affectation,” he said, throwing down a glance. “Three years ago now. Appendicitis. Took the damn thing out but … complications. Laid up in hospital for five months. Left me with a taste for something I’ve been unable to shake off since.”
No Ordinary Killing Page 35
