Death in Zanzibar (17 page)

Tyson reached for the glass he had left on the floor and took a long pull at it.

‘You know,' he said thoughtfully, ‘it's astonishing how often life can give points to the movies. Have any of you ever heard the legend of the lost treasure buried by Seyyid Saïd?'

‘Yes!' said Dany.

‘No,
really,
darling,' protested Lorraine. ‘You can't believe that story! I mean, it's
too
ridiculous. I know it's in one of the guide books, but
____
'

‘“But me no buts”,' said Tyson flapping an impatient hand, ‘I too thought I was too old to fall for that one. But there was something mightily convincing about that bit of paper. If no one else believed in the treasure, Grandfather Emory certainly did. And for a very good reason.'

‘I suppose he helped to bury it?' commented Lash with sarcasm.

‘In a way,' said Tyson. ‘And you can take that damned impertinent superior sneer off your face, young Holden!'

He glowered for a moment, refreshed himself from his glass, and then said: ‘No. According to old Rory, when Seyyid Saïd died he left the secret with a witch doctor of Pemba, who promptly and rather meanly put a curse on it to the effect that anyone finding it could only use it to bring evil — something of that description. It was intended, one supposes, to discourage people from hunting around for it, but Saïd's successor, Majid, wasn't going to be put off by a thing like that. According to Grandfather Emory, he tortured the witch, collared the information, dug the stuff up with the enthusiastic assistance of my unregenerate ancestor, and generously went halves with him. Emory's share, if I have worked out its present-day value correctly, must have been close on three million sterling.'

There was a brief silence, and then Lash rose to replenish his glass. ‘All this,' he said, ‘if you will forgive my saying so, is the ripest slice of pure Gorgonzola that I have come across in an ill-spent life. Me, I don't believe a word of it! But it's obvious that someone else does. And I don't mean you or your grandfather, either!'

Lorraine's eyes were enormous and she spoke in little gasps: ‘But Tyson!… but darling … three
million!
He can't have … What did he
do
with it?'

‘Buried it,' said Tyson blandly. ‘Or so he says.'

‘But
where?
'

‘Ah! that's the catch. He doesn't say. All he says is that he has deposited the key in a sealed envelope with old Honeywood (that would probably be our Honeywood's grandfather, or else his great-uncle) and that it is only to be handed over if and when someone asks for it, quoting, correctly, a number and some initials that were on the envelope. The number being seven four three eight nine, and the initials being his own, E.T.F.'

‘I'll be damned!' ejaculated Lash, startled.

‘I don't doubt it: not if this is your usual form,' commented Tyson unkindly. ‘Well — there you are. It seemed a damned sight too good to be true, and I didn't believe a word of it. Life isn't
that
much like the movies! But it was worth investigating, and as a first step I wrote old Honeywood, asking if he had such a letter in his possession. He had — which shook me. Deposited with Honeywood & Honeywood in eighteen sixty one. I thought it was well worth looking at, and I didn't want to trust it to the post.
Or
to Gussie! Between you and me, I don't … Oh, well, let it go. The point is that as Dany was coming out, it seemed a good idea to ask her to call and collect it and bring it out with her. And that's all there is to it.'

‘Except that you gave him a date and a time for that call,' said Lash.

‘And why not? The thing was almost certainly in a safe deposit box in some bank, and he'd have to get it out and have it ready to hand over. It wouldn't have been at his house, and as I still correspond with him and not his junior partner, I said I'd send Dany to get it from him; which meant to his house. And if I know anything of old Honeywood, he wouldn't have had it there very much before he needed it. He's a careful guy. Or rather, he was, poor brute.'

‘So that was it!' said Lash. ‘Then I was right.' He got up and stood looking out of the window, his hands in his pockets. ‘Someone knew, and meant to get there first. But Dany spoilt the game by going down in the morning instead of the afternoon.'

He turned abruptly: ‘Who else knew?'

‘No one,' said Tyson shortly.

‘Oh, nuts! Of course someone else knew.'

‘I apologize,' snarled Tyson. ‘I should have said: “I myself did not tell anyone.” Not even my wife.'

‘What about Ponting?'

‘Or my secretary!'

‘But he could have found out.'

‘Oh no, he couldn't. I took dam' good care of that! Curiosity is Nigel's besetting sin, and I had no intention of letting him get a look at the Frost papers — or my letters to Honeywood! I keep those papers in a locked box, and the key to it is round my neck. Some of that stuff could touch off quite a few explosions even now, and I'm taking no chances. Besides there's money in 'em.'

‘And murder!' amended Lash grimly.

‘So it would seem. All the same, I don't believe
____
'

‘Belief is no good,' said Lash impatiently. ‘Could you swear on oath that neither your secretary nor any servant or guest in this house, nor your wife, could possibly, under any circumstances, have seen that paper of Emory's?'

Lorraine gave a faint indignant cry: ‘Well,
really
Lash! Why
me?
I mean, even if I had (and I didn't, I hadn't an idea)
would
I have been likely to tell anyone?'

‘I don't know,' said Lash. ‘Would you?'

Lorraine made a helpless fluttering gesture with her little hands and gazed appealingly at her husband.

‘Of course she would,' said Tyson brutally. ‘That's why I didn't tell her. I never tell any woman a secret unless I want it given the widest possible publicity in the shortest possible time.'

Lorraine gave a small sigh. ‘You know, Tyson darling, I can't understand how it is that you write so well when you so often talk in clichés. Schizophrenia, I suppose. Not that you aren't quite right about me, as it happens. Whenever anyone tells me a secret I always think “Now who shall I tell first?”'

Tyson gave a short bark of laughter. ‘I know. But to revert to your question, young Lash, the answer is “No”. The key of that box has never been out of my possession, and just in case you are going to suggest that Lorrie might have removed it one night while I was asleep, I will add that I am a remarkably light sleeper. And anyway, I don't believe for one moment that anyone in this house was even aware of the existence of that paper.'

‘And what about the letters you wrote this guy Honeywood? They must have contained quite a few relevant details. Enough, anyway, to arouse a considerable slice of curiosity as to the contents of that sealed envelope! The number and the initials, and roughly the date when it was deposited with the firm. Who mails your letters?'

‘Abdurahman, when he goes into town. And he can't read English.'

‘But he could have shown 'em to some of the local boys who could.'

‘Why? My purely personal correspondence is pretty voluminous — quite apart from the stuff that Nigel deals with for me, which is vast. Any house-servant or local snooper who was interested in it would have had his work cut out for months, steaming open envelopes in the hope of stumbling across something of interest. So you can wash that one right out.'

But Tyson had forgotten, thought Dany, that there was at least one other person who had not only read his letters, but who possibly knew something — perhaps not much, but enough — of the contents of that time-yellowed envelope.

She said: ‘Mr Honeywood knew something, I think. He didn't seem to approve of my taking the letter. He said something about letting sleeping dogs lie, and that no good would come of it. Perhaps he knew what was in it. His grandfather may have told him.'

‘Of course! And
he
may have talked!' said Lorraine.

Tyson let out another crack of laughter. ‘What, old Henry Honeywood? That desiccated clam? You didn't know him like Gussie and I did!'

‘Perhaps not; but I do know that it isn't only women who talk,' retorted Lorraine. ‘Any dried-up old-maid bachelor can usually leave them at the post when it comes to gossip. And he had a housekeeper: that stout old lady with the hearing-aid. She was probably eaten up with curiosity. It's an occupational disease with housekeepers. I expect she read all his letters and gossiped over the contents with all her friends at the Women's Institute!'

‘Not Mrs Broughty,' said Tyson, looking thoughtful. ‘She's another clam. But that char of his, Mrs Porson, is quite a different proposition. She often does odd jobs for Gussie, and she talks her head off. Why, once when Elf was staying down there she told her the most staggering details of a case that
____
. Oh well, that's neither here nor there. But as she could only have got hold of them by taking an unauthorized interest in old Henry's correspondence, I suppose we shall have to take it that there may have been a leak. In fact there must have been! So I think that our next move is to notify Scotland Yard — and see that the letter goes by hand. I'll write it first thing after luncheon, and take it round myself to the Residency and ask the Resident as a personal favour to send it in the next diplomatic bag — they must have one. Thank God I happen to know the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police. That may help. I'll write direct to him, and if he wants to set the local cops on to us, he can. But as it will be at least three days, and possibly four, before he can get a letter, it'll give us time to see if there's anything in this fantastic Buried Treasure yarn. Where's the key, Dany? Let's have it.'

‘But it isn't a key,' said Dany. ‘At least, not an ordinary key — a metal one. I would have felt it if it was. I think it's only a folded piece of paper.'

‘Probably a map,' said Tyson.

‘Or clues, like a crossword!' Lorraine's face flushed as charmingly as an excited child's.

Lash said dampingly: ‘Far more likely to be one of those rambling bits of abracadabra that say
Walk fifty paces due south from the back porch of Ali Baba's house, and when you reach the blasted fig tree, wait until the sun be overhead, and dig where the shadow of the fig tree joins the ditch.
A fascinating document that fails to take into account that by this time Ali Baba's house has been pulled down and replaced by a fish-glue factory, the blasted fig passed out of the picture seventy years back and someone's drained the ditch in the course of an irrigation scheme! That's all we need yet!'

But Lorraine refused to be damped. ‘But the treasure would still be there —
somewhere!
Oh, Tyson, just think if it should turn out to be true! It's the most thrilling thing. Will there be jewels? There ought to be. Carved emeralds and pigeon's blood rubies and diamond hilted daggers and ropes and ropes of pearls.
Marvellous!
'

‘It depends on how Emory and his Sultan pal split the loot,' said Tyson, finishing his drink. ‘But being a citizen on whom remarkably few flies appear to have rested, I bet he played safe and took the gold. Anyway, that's what it sounds like — if, of course, he took anything, and this isn't the old reprobate's idea of a belly-laugh at the expense of his posterity. I wouldn't put it past him!'

‘Oh
no,
darling!' protested Lorraine. ‘I won't believe it. It's got to be true. I
want
it to be true. We shall solve the crossword, and creep out at night with spades and dig up buckets and buckets full of gold.'

‘And find ourselves in the local lock-up for attempting to steal what is undoubtedly the property of the Sultan of Zanzibar,' said Lash morosely.

‘Ah, that's just where you're wrong, boy,' said Tyson, heaving himself up and fetching another drink. ‘There was no green in Grandfather Emory's eye. His half was a gift, for services rendered. Duly attested, too. There is a document to prove it. It was inside the opposite cover; and there's a nice clear thumb print attached, as well as the donor's seal and signature. It would probably stand in a court of law even today. However, we haven't got the stuff yet. Where's old Honeywood's letter, Dany?'

‘In my coat pocket,' said Dany, and smiled a little wanly. ‘It seemed the safest place, and I did fix it so that it couldn't be pick-pocketed!'

She reached for the camel-hair coat that she had carried over to the guest-house with her and hung over the back of her chair, and after struggling with the safety-pin, drew out a soft square of chiffon that was folded about a small yellow envelope with five numerals and three initials written on it in faded ink.

She stood staring at it wide-eyed, feeling it: horror and incredulity dawning in her face. Then she turned it over quickly.

The heavy seal that had closed the flap was broken, and the envelope was empty.

11

‘It's preposterous!' bellowed Tyson for the fourth if not the fifth time. ‘It's just plain bloody impossible!'

‘Oh, darling,' moaned Lorraine, ‘don't go on and on and
on
saying that. Besides, it's so
silly!
How can it be impossible when it's
happened?
'

‘It can't have happened; that's why! Not the way she said, anyway. You can see for yourself the way that bit of stuff was folded and pinned. I tell you it was humanly impossible for anyone — anyone outside of an astral body! — to do the job unless that coat was out of Dany's possession for at least five minutes. Great suffering snakes — I've tried it! You saw me. No one could unpin it from the lining, take it out, get at the envelope and remove the letter, and then put the whole shooting-match back again just exactly as it was, at the bottom of a deep slit pocket. Not even Houdini! She must have left the coat lying about.'