Death in Zanzibar (29 page)

He sat down on the window-seat, his reflective gaze still on the moonlit seascape outside, and said slowly: ‘I'd like to know more about this Larry Dowling. A lot more. And I'm willing to bet that the cops will too, just as soon as Tyson's letter turns up at Scotland Yard and they move in on us.'

Dany said flatly: ‘It isn't Larry. It couldn't possibly be Larry.'

‘Why not? There's something phoney about that guy. I've known a good few newspapermen in my time, and he doesn't ring true.'

‘But he's not a newspaperman! He's a feature writer. And
____
'

‘What's that got to do with it? He's after a story — Tyson's. So why doesn't he get on with it? If he's done any writing since he arrived, I'm Ernest Hemingway! Then there's Gussie…'

Dany subsided suddenly on the divan, nursing the wreck of Asbestos. She said tiredly: ‘Yes. I thought of her too. Because she would have known so many things that — that whoever it is must have known. But I don't believe it. I just can't see her climbing fire-escapes and things like that. And she was fond of Millicent.'

‘How do you know that? None of us can really know anything much about anyone else. We can only go by what we see. I guess I thought I knew plenty about Elf. I meant to marry her, heaven help me! — and me, I'm an Old World throw-back to my respected Scotch ancestors when it comes to saying “I do.” It's not going to mean to me “Until Alimony and the Other Man doth us part”. No, I thought I knew more about Elf than any of the other guys had done: that none of them had understood her as I did — all the old routine. That'll show you!'

His laugh held more than a trace of bitterness, and turning his shoulder to the window and the moonlight, he said: ‘Millicent Bates may have been rubbed out because she was the active partner in some little scheme of Gussie's She may have done that job in London, then caught on to it later that Gussie had shot the family lawyer, and taken a poor view of it. And then there's the Latin lover…'

Lash rose and poured himself another drink, and broke off to remark conversationally: ‘Your step-father is one hell of a host. He thinks of everything. Gin, soda-water syphon, bitters, Scotch. Look at 'em all! Say, who does he think I am? It's a libel. Have one?'

Dany shook her head, and he brought his drink across and sat down in an arm-chair facing her; holding the glass between both hands and looking down into the golden liquid intently, as though it were a crystal ball in which he could see the future — or the past.

‘The Signore Marchese di Chiago,' said Lash softly. ‘Apart from racing cars he has quite a reputation as a fast guy. And a weakness for blondes. He's known Tyson, and your mother, for a good many years, and this isn't his first visit to Zanzibar. He's stayed in this house before. And if there's anything in gossip — largely Nigel's I'll admit! — he's had several affairs of the heart that his family have managed to bring to a grinding halt just short of the altar, and it's a cinch that they'll queer this one too if they can. But maybe this time it's gone deeper. Maybe he's got to have Elf, come hell or high water. She can have that effect on some people. There was one guy — Douglas something — who took a header out of a top storey window when Elf threw him over. But Eduardo isn't the kind that likes taking “No” for an answer. He comes from a country where a male with a title gets all the breaks, and if he wanted anything badly enough I guess he wouldn't stop at much to get it. But Elf is a strictly cash proposition — from both angles. His and hers. No lire — no Elf. Maybe we haven't paid enough attention to Eduardo and his fiery Southern blood.'

Lash gave the contents of his glass some more practical attention, and lit a cigarette, and Dany watched him anxiously. She wished that she did not feel so frightened, and that she could look at it all as Lash appeared to be doing: as an interesting problem of the ‘Who's Got the Button?' variety. But looking about the small room with its silent evidence of an unknown searcher, she was aware of nothing but an acute sense of danger.

This was neither a game nor a nightmare from which she would awake. It was real. It was the springing of a trap that had been set over ninety years ago, and which had caught her when she had called on a prim, elderly, country solicitor to fetch a letter written by a man who had died back in the last century.

Lash said thoughtfully: ‘It could be Tyson,' and she came back to the present with a sharp jerk.

‘
Tyson?
What are you talking about?'

‘This
____
' said Lash, gesturing with his cigarette at the ill-concealed disorder of the room. ‘That
____
' he indicated the sad remains of Asbestos. ‘And your room too. He may have wanted to satisfy himself that one of us hadn't double-crossed him. If you remember, he did once suggest that you might have held on to the contents of that envelope yourself. It could be Tyson. Or Ponting. In fact, why not Ponting? He was in Nairobi. You know, that's quite an idea — except that I guess he'd have made a far neater job of it if this had been his lily-fingered handiwork! He could have been pressed for time, of course, but somehow I can't see that elegant, willowy tulip leaving the place in this sort of mess. If dear Nigel had been conducting “Operation Frisk” I've a strong feeling that we wouldn't have known that anything had been touched. And yet it's got to be someone in the house, who knew that we wouldn't be back for quite a while, and
____
Say! Wait a minute!'

He put his glass down and came suddenly to his feet. ‘Why didn't I think of that?'

‘Of what?' demanded Dany, her voice sharp with anxiety.

‘Seyyid Omar! He knew damned well just how long we'd be away. He could even be the original weevil in the woodwork. Yes … why not? He's a big shot in this island. He'd be the only one who could easily plant his servants — or even his relatives — in the house. And who would know?'

Lash took a quick turn about the room and came back to stand in front of Dany.

‘Now look. Supposing he got all his information from a servant in this house — that silent, slippered guy who slides in and out with the coffee and takes the letters to the post. Suppose he can read English after all, and that he read Tyson's letters to this Honeywood, and possibly Lorraine's to you as well, and passed on the information? Omar doesn't go after Emory's letter himself, but he sends a stooge — Jembe — who gets rid of Honeywood but fails to get the goods. Jembe has another try at finding it when he frisks your room at the Airlane, and so he
____
'

‘Steals my passport,' put in Dany. ‘But that
can't
be right! What would be the point of stopping me leaving the country?'

‘Ah, I've thought of that one: it occurred to me once before. So that you'd mail it. The letter. Who's to say they haven't got a pal planted in the post office here, as well as in the house? It wouldn't be difficult if you were Seyyid Omar. For anyone else, yes. But not for him.'

‘I don't think
____
' began Dany doubtfully.

‘No one's asking you to! I'm developing a theory. Now, this Jembe finds that you are on the plane after all — thinly disguised by dyed hair and glasses. So what does he do? He has another shot at stealing the thing in Nairobi, fluffs it, and has to report failure to the boss — our friend Omar, who meets him at Nairobi West. You actually saw 'em talking.'

Dany said: ‘Yes. But why should Seyyid Omar want to poison him? It doesn't make sense!'

‘I'm not so sure. After all, you've arrived and you've still got the goods. Jembe has shot his bolt and is of no further use — and probably knows too much anyway! So the best thing is to get rid of him and leave the rest to one of these poker-faced guys in white night-gowns who seem to be all over the house, and who would probably skin their grandmothers alive for ten dollars down and ten to follow. For all we know any one of them may easily turn out to have majored in modern languages and picked up a coupla degrees on the side. Who's to tell?'

Dany said: ‘Yes … I suppose so. But you've forgotten something. There are two quite different people in all this. The one — or the ones — who are still trying to find that letter and who think I've still got it, and the one who
has
got it. If Seyyid Omar hasn't got it, who has?'

Lash's face changed and became wholly expressionless. He looked down at the cigarette he held, and after a moment he flipped it away through the open window and said lightly:

‘Yes — who? Certainly not our friend the Seyyid, if he was the guy who picked your pocket in the cave and so neatly got us out of the way while one of his tarbooshed minions went through our rooms.'

Dany said: ‘But if you really think he's the one behind all this, why did he show us how Miss Bates was killed?'

‘To scare us, I guess. Make us lose our nerve — and our heads.'

Lash finished his drink and tossing the empty glass on the sofa, said: ‘I think a short talk with your step-father is indicated. I don't think he's got any idea of what a hornet's nest he stirred up, and I intend to bring it home to him — if I have to use a sledge-hammer to do it!'

He looked down at Dany's white face and smiled a little crookedly. ‘It's a helluva mess, honey, but you don't have to lose your nerve.'

‘I haven't any left to lose!' admitted Dany ruefully. ‘Not an atom!'

Lash laughed and reached down his hands to pull her to her feet.

‘Nuts, Miss Kitchell! Momentarily mislaid, perhaps, but never lost. And I don't know if that aunt of yours ever warned you against visiting in bachelor's apartments at this hour of night, but I believe it is frowned upon in the more prudish circles of society. So in about two minutes time I am going to take you back to your room.'

Five minutes later he said reflectively: ‘You know something? — This looks as though it might become a habit.'

It was, in fact, just over fifteen minutes later that he finally escorted Dany back to the house.

18

There had been no chance for any private talk with Tyson on the following day, for he had slept late, and then in response to a message delivered to the house, had gone off deep-sea fishing with a friend: a visiting peer who had arrived unexpectedly, and only that morning, in a private yacht.

‘Really,
too
exasperating!' complained Nigel. ‘We have a positive plethora of work on hand, but will he get down to it? — will he hell! The
rudest
wires from the publisher: one can only hope that the operators can't read English. And he
swore
he'd have a talk with Larry this morning. Have you been able to pin him down to anything yet, Holden?'

‘Nope,' said Lash lazily, and turned over on his stomach.

They had all been bathing, and were now basking on the hot white sand on the beach below the house, acquiring what they hoped would be an even tan and not a savage case of sunburn.

‘Who's been sending rude cables?' inquired Lash. ‘Sounds like my respected Pop.'

‘No. Our British publishers. So
testy,
' said Nigel.

Gussie looked up from anointing her legs with sun-tan oil and said: ‘I thought you were supposed to be doing some sort of deal with Tyson about the Emory Frost papers, Mr Holden. A business-with-pleasure visit. Though I'm afraid it can't have been very pleasant to … Oh, dear, I didn't mean to be tactless.'

‘You weren't,' Lash assured her. ‘And you're dead right about those papers. I am hoping to persuade your brother to sign on the dotted line. If I can get him to sit still that long. But he's a difficult man to pin down, and right now I feel too idle to chase after him.'

‘Where's your American hustle?' demanded Gussie with a bright smile.

Lash yawned. ‘I guess I shed it somewhere short of Naples — along with my raincoat. Right now I prefer basking to business. But don't worry: I'll get round to it sometime — no kidding. What are we doing the rest of today?'

‘Nothing,' said Nigel firmly.

‘Swell. That sounds right up my street.'

‘Nonsense!' said Gussie briskly. ‘We're all going shopping and sight-seeing in the town. It's all arranged. And then we're having tea at the hotel, and Lorraine said something about a moonlight picnic somewhere along the shore.'

‘Holy Moses!' murmured Lash devoutly.

‘Didn't you, Lorraine?' said Gussie, ignoring the interruption.

‘Yes, Gussie dear. But only for anyone who wants to do any of it. You don't have to, you know.'

‘I can see no point in coming to a place like Zanzibar if one is going to lie about and sleep all day. One can do that at home.'

‘But not on lovely white beaches in the sun,' murmured Amalfi. ‘Nigel, why is this sand white instead of yellow?'

‘Coral, you pretty ignoramus. And pumice I expect. You know, I found out something totally fascinating the other day. Do you know where all those silly little pumice-stones that you find all along the beaches come from? Krakatoa!'

‘And where,' said Eduardo, ‘is Krakatoa?'

Nigel shuddered and put a hand over his eyes. ‘The educational standards of the drinking classes would appear to be universally and
utterly
inadequate. Krakatoa, my decadent barbarian, was a volcano in the Sunda Straits — that's between Java and Sumatra in case you didn't know — which blew itself to bits in 1883 with a bang that no A-bomb will ever equal. And these are the bits. They bobbed along in the currents and got stranded here. I can't say I ever used pumice-stone before, but I do now. It
enchants
me to feel that I'm scraping off my ink stains with Krakatoa!'