Death in Zanzibar (11 page)

‘Oh dear,' said Dany guiltily, ‘that reminds me. Did I ever meet this Mr Ponting? Tyson's secretary? — I mean, did Ada Kitchell ever meet him? Because Mrs Bingham asked me about him, and I didn't know if I should know anything or not.'

Lash raised a couple of clenched fists to heaven while his lips moved soundlessly, and then, lowering them, said in a strictly controlled voice: ‘No, by the mercy of Providence you did not meet him. Otherwise we'd have been in a worse jam than we're in right now. What did you tell her?'

‘Nothing. Luckily she didn't wait for an answer.'

‘Lucky is right! And I hope that's taught you a lesson. Can't you see that your only chance is to lie low and keep out of sight, and not talk to anybody —
anybody!
— until you get to Zanzibar? Once you get there it's your step-father's headache. And if he has any sense, he'll give you six with a slipper where it hurts most!'

Lash went across to the table by the window and helped himself to a drink from a tray that had not been there when she left. But she was relieved to see that the bottle appeared to be far more than three parts full, and that the amount he took was unquestionably modest.

‘This,' said Lash, intercepting her look and interpreting it correctly, ‘is merely to take the taste of that godammed tea out of my mouth. Much as I should like to duck the whole situation by getting roaring drunk, I shall lay off it until I've got rid of you. Going on a bender is a luxury I can't afford while there are people like you around loose.'

Dany remarked pleasantly that it was kind of him to worry so much about her welfare.

‘I'm not,' said Lash shortly. ‘You can disabuse yourself of that idea right away. It's myself I'm worrying about. Which is why, Miss Kitchell, you will stay right here in this room and keep your mouth shut until we leave for the airport tomorrow morning. And you will continue to keep your charming trap shut until we are safely inside your unfortunate step-father's front door. After that, I shall, myself, take the first plane out again, with Ada's passport in my pants' pocket, and leave you to it.'

He finished his drink and moved to the door: ‘You'll find the draft copies of several letters on that writing table. I guess you may as well fill in the time by typing them. Three carbons. And spell them correctly — in American.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Dany meekly.

Lash laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. ‘You know, you're not a bad kid,' he conceded. ‘Your I.Q. is probably the lowest on record, and I can't figure out how the Welfare State ever allowed you to go around without a keeper. But you have your moments. Don't let this lick you, honey. I'll see you through.'

Dany was aware of a sudden prickle of tears behind her eyes, and she turned away quickly so that he should not see them. ‘Thank you,' she said in a small voice.

Lash said: ‘The typewriter is in that square maroon-coloured case. I'm not sure where the paper and carbons are. Look around. Oh, and by the way, just for the look of the thing, you are occupying this suite on your own. I fixed it with the management. Officially, I am down as sleeping in Room 72, during the absence of the owner. Actually, as he's put a padlock on it, I shall be spending the night on this sofa. But as long as no one else knows it, the decencies will be preserved. And there's a lock on that door over there, in case you feel anxious.'

He opened the door into the passage, and added over his shoulder: ‘I'll see that they send along some dinner for you. Safer than turning you loose in the dining-room, with wolves like that guy Dowling prowling around.'

‘You, I suppose,' said Dany crossly, ‘will be dining out. I should have thought you'd have more pride!'

‘Take a letter, Miss Kitchell,' said Lash austerely, and shut the door with a bang.

7

It was just on two o'clock in the morning when Dany awoke suddenly and lay still; listening.

She did not know what had awakened her, except that it was a sound. Perhaps it was Lash coming back. No, it could not be that. She had heard Lash come back before she fell asleep; and that was over an hour ago, for she could make out the position of the hands on the luminous dial of the travelling-clock that stood facing her on the dressing-table. Besides, the sound had not come from the next room. It had been nearer than that, she felt sure …

Dany had slept little and uneasily in the hotel in Gloucester Road, and worse on the plane last night, so she had confidently expected to make up for it here. But sleep had eluded her, and for hour after hour she had tossed and turned in the wide bed, worrying over her parlous predicament and listening for Lash's return.

He had come back at last, shortly before one o'clock. And presumably sober, for he had made so little noise that but for the fact that she was awake and listening for him, she would not have known that he had returned. She had heard a switch click, and a narrow thread of light had appeared under the door between the two rooms, and Dany had sat up in bed hugging her knees and wishing fervently that the conventions did not forbid her going in to the next room to talk to him.

She was feeling lonely and forlorn and frightened, and much in need of comfort, and Lash had not improved matters by starting to whistle very softly between his teeth as he undressed. It was only the ghost of a melody, but the song was familiar. Too familiar.
‘Then I'll go sailing far, off to Zanzibar…'
He sounded light-hearted enough.

He's made it up with her, thought Dany desolately. What fools men are. She's old enough to be his mother! Well, not his mother perhaps — but his aunt. And she doesn't care a button for him. Not really. She'd rather be a
Marchesa
— or a millionairess — or … Perhaps he
is
a millionaire? No, he can't be! He mustn't be. That Sir Somebody … Ambrose Something who got off at Khartoum. Oil.
He's
probably a millionaire, and old enough for her. Perhaps she will marry him instead. Or the Italian. But please, not Lash …

The light under the door vanished, and Dany had fallen asleep at last. To be awakened very suddenly an hour later by a sound that she could not identify.

She listened for it to be repeated, but it did not come again, and presently she relaxed once more and lay staring sleepily into the darkness. An hour earlier there had been a moon: a bright, white, African moon that had shone in at her window and made the room so light that she had got out of bed and pulled the heavy inner curtains over the muslin ones that were intended to keep out such things as flies and dust during the daytime. But now the moon had set and the lights in the hotel had winked out, and the streets of Nairobi were dark and silent. As dark and as silent as her room.

Dany's eyelids had begun to droop when suddenly and horribly she was aware that there was someone in the room with her.

She had been lying looking idly at the faint green dial of the travelling-clock, and she had heard no sound. But she did not need to. Something — someone — had moved between her bed and the dressing-table, and blotted out that small luminous circle. She could still hear the clock ticking quite clearly. But she could no longer see it.

Dany sat up very slowly, inch by terrified inch; moving as noiselessly as that other presence in the room, until at last she was sitting upright, pressed hard back against the pillows and the padded bed-head. Her hands were clenched on the sheets and every muscle in her body seemed atrophied by fear. She could move no further. She could only sit rigidly and stare into the darkness with dilated eyes, while her breath seemed to fail her and her heartbeats sounded as swift and as audible in the silence as hoof-beats on a hard road.

Nothing moved in the blackness, but there was an odd smell in the room. A queer sickly smell that was somehow familiar and yet very frightening. As frightening as the unseen thing that was in the room with her.

Then all at once the clock face was visible again. The blackness that had obscured it had moved from left to right, and that meant that it — whatever it was — was moving towards her.

Dany opened her mouth to scream and found that her throat was dry and stiff and so constricted by terror that the only sound that emerged from it was a foolish croaking little gasp. But it had been a mistake to make that sound.

There was a sudden sharp sense of movement in the darkness and something touched the side of the bed. And suddenly, born of a desperate instinct of self-preservation, courage and the power of connected thought returned to her. That foolish croak had only served to guide someone to her; and if she screamed, though she might wake Lash, he could not get to her for she had locked the door. And she might not have time for more than one scream …

Dany gathered her strength, and flinging herself suddenly to one side, rolled over to the far side of the bed and was on the floor and on her feet.

The suddenness of the movement evidently took the intruder by surprise, for she heard a sharp intake of breath and a quick movement that was followed by an involuntary gasp of pain. At least it was human, for it had stubbed a bare or a stockinged foot on the leg of the bed. The sound betrayed its position as her own effort to scream had betrayed hers, and that much at least helped her. But only for a moment.

Dany backed away into the darkness, and it was only then that she realized that whoever was in the room with her was not an ordinary thief. A thief, with the window behind him and realizing that she was awake, would have escaped into the night without loss of time. But this was someone who meant to get
her
— Dany Ashton! To kill her … For a swift sickening moment the pinched, prim face of Mr Honeywood seemed to float in the air before her.

Murder
 … That was no longer merely an arresting word in a newspaper headline. It was real. It was here in the room with her. Murder. When she moved, it moved. When she stood still, straining to listen, it stood still — listening too. Waiting to pounce …

She was shivering so badly that she could hardly stand and she felt as though she would go mad with fear. She had lost her bearings, and though her cold hands were against the wall and she felt along it, she no longer knew in which direction she was moving. Was she going towards the door into the sitting-room or moving away from it? Where was the bed? Where was the window?

And then, for a brief moment, she saw the clock dial again and knew where she was. But in the next instant there was a clatter and the ghost of a chuckle — a horrifying sound in the darkness — and it had vanished. The clock had been deliberately overturned so that it could no longer guide her, or betray a movement.

But she was within a yard of the door now. She must be. Another three steps and she would reach it.

Something struck the wall beside her with a sharp
plop
and almost succeeded in forcing a scream from her. The effort to restrain it and make no sudden movement beaded her forehead with a cold sweat and wet the palms of her hands, but with the next step she knew that she had saved herself: and what had made that sound.

The intruder had thrown one of her heelless velvet slippers at random across the room to trap her into a scream or an audible movement that would betray her position. Her foot touched the slipper and she stooped cautiously and silently, and picking it up threw it in the direction of the bathroom door.

It hit the wall and fell with a soft thump, and once again she heard a harsh, quick-drawn breath, and then a rush of stockinged feet towards the sound. But she had reached the door of the sitting-room and the key was cold between her fingers. She turned it, and twisted the door-handle with hands that were so wet with terror that for a moment the knob slipped sickeningly and would not turn. And then the door was open and she was through; stumbling into unseen furniture and screaming for Lash.

She heard her pursuer cannon into the half open door behind her, but she had reached the sofa and Lash had woken up. ‘What the hell
____
!' he demanded. And at the sound of his voice there came a quick incredulous gasp and a flurry of sound that ended with the slam of a door. And they were alone.

Lash groped his way blasphemously to the nearest switch, his progress grossly impeded by Dany who was clinging to him with the desperate tenacity of a limpet and then the lights snapped on and he blinked dazedly, mechanically patting her shuddering shoulders.

‘Lash … Lash … Oh, Lash!'
wept Dany, dissolved in tears and terror.

‘It's all right,' said Lash awkwardly. ‘I'm here. Everything's all right. Was it a real bad nightmare, honey?'

‘It wasn't a nightmare,' sobbed Dany. ‘It was a m-murderer! A
murderer!
'

‘Don't think about it, bambina,' advised Lash kindly. ‘It's no use letting all this get you down. Stop crying, honey.'

But Dany merely tightened her terrified clutch on him. ‘You don't understand — I wasn't dreaming. It was real. It was
real
____
'

‘O.K., it was real,' said Lash soothingly. ‘But you don't have to strangle me. Look, what about a little drink and a couple of aspirins?'

Getting no response to this suggestion, and finding that Dany had no intention of letting go of him, he picked her up bodily, and returning to the sofa sat down on it, holding her, and reached over her head for the tray of drinks that he had thoughtfully placed within range of his temporary bed.

‘Now see here, for Pete's sake sit up and get a grip on yourself. Here, drink this — it's only water … That's a good child. You know, right now what you need most is a handkerchief. Or let's say six handkerchiefs. Come on, honey. Snap out of it! You're soaking me, and I shall catch one hell of a cold.'

Dany lifted her head from his damp shoulder and sat up, displaying a tear-streaked and terrified face, and gazed helplessly about her.