Death in Zanzibar (6 page)

She had passed a sleepless night, and was looking white and worn when Lash collected her in a taxi at a comparatively early hour on the following morning. But a glimpse of herself in the large Victorian looking-glass that adorned the hall of the family hotel had at least served to convince her that no one would be likely to recognize her. She had not even recognized herself, and for a fleeting moment had imagined that the wan-faced young woman with the over-dressed red hair and wide-rimmed spectacles was some stranger who was standing in the narrow, chilly hall.

Lash, however, apart from a noticeable pallor and the fact that his eyes were over-bright, showed no signs of fatigue. He exuded high-spirits and was accompanied by a strong smell of whisky and the cat Asbestos, and no one would have suspected for a moment that he had not been to bed or had any sleep at all for two consecutive nights.

He had dismissed with a single short word Dany's trembling assertion that she had changed her mind and couldn't possibly go through with it, and once in the taxi and
en route
to the Air Terminal had made her take several sea-sick pills and swallow them down with rye whisky.

She had been unable to eat any breakfast that morning, panic having deprived her of appetite, and the raw spirit, coming on top of a sleepless night and an empty stomach, had quietened her postoperative nerves and filled her with a pleasant glow of confidence which had lasted until the passengers bound for Nairobi were marshalled in the departure lounge, and she had found herself standing next to a slim, youngish-looking man with a thin, triangular, attractive face, observant brown eyes and a square, obstinate chin.

Catching Dany's eye he had smiled at her; a swift and singularly pleasant smile that she found it impossible to resent, and said: ‘I see that we're both bound for Zanzibar. Have you ever been there before?'

His voice was as irresistibly friendly and good-humoured as his smile, and Dany smiled back at him and shook her head.

‘No? That's a pity: I'd hoped to pick up a few pointers. This'll be my first visit too. As a matter of fact, I never expected to make it. I've had my name down on half a dozen waiting lists for weeks on end, but all the Nairobi planes seemed to be booked solid. I'd almost given up hope when my luck turned — someone cancelled a seat only yesterday, and I got it.'

‘Oh,' said Dany, jumping slightly. ‘H-how lucky for you.'

‘It was that all right! I'm a feature writer. Freelance. My name's Dowling — Larry Dowling.'

‘Oh,' said Dany faintly. ‘A — reporter.'

Mr Dowling looked pained. ‘No. Feature writer. Have you ever heard of a novelist called Frost? Tyson Frost? But of course you have! Well, he's got a house in Zanzibar, and I've been commissioned by a newspaper and a couple of magazines to try and get a feature on him. That is, if he'll see me. He's not an easy man to get at, from all accounts. Still, I ought to be able to get something out of the trip, even if Frost won't play. Might be able to do something on the elections down there. There's a rumour that the local Moscow-Nasser stooges are making an all-out bid for control of the island.'

‘Of
Zanzibar?
But it's quite an unimportant little place!' protested Dany, momentarily forgetting her own predicament in a sudden sense of outrage. Was there then no longer any lovely, romantic spot left in all the world that was free from squabbling political parties?

Mr Larry Dowling laughed. ‘You know, there was a time when a good many people might have said the same of Sarajevo. But they learnt differently. I'm afraid you'll find that in a world that plays Power Politics there is no such thing any longer as “an unimportant little place”.'

‘Oh, no!' said Dany involuntarily. ‘Why does everything have to be spoiled!'

Mr Dowling lifted a quizzical eyebrow, but his pleasant voice was sympathetic; ‘That's Life, that is. I didn't mean to depress you. I'm sure you'll find Zanzibar every bit as attractive as you expect it to be. I believe it's a lovely place. Are you staying with friends there, or are you going to put up at the hotel like me? I hear there is
____
'

He broke off, his attention sharply arrested by the Vision at that moment entering the crowded lounge. A vision dressed by Dior and draped in mink, preceded, surrounded and followed by a heady waft of glamour and exceedingly expensive scent, and accompanied by a slim, dark Italianate young man and a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with grey hair and cold pale eyes.

Her entrance created something of a stir, and Mr Holden, also turning to look, lost a considerable portion of his
bonhomie.

‘Here come some of your step-father's guests,' he observed sourly to Dany. ‘The Latin type is Eduardo di Chiago. A Roman louse who races his own cars and is a friend of Tyson's — he would be! The one with white whiskers and Foreign Office written all over him (erroneously, he's oil) is Yardley. Sir Ambrose. He's been getting a lot too thick with Elf of late, and she'd better watch her step — there was a rumour around that his Company might be heading for the rocks; and not the kind of rocks she collects, either! It's a pity it isn't true. But at least we don't have to put up with him for long. He's only going as far as Khartoum.'

He did not identify the Vision, but he did not need to. It was, unmistakably, the original of the affectionately inscribed photograph that had adorned his dressing-table at the Airlane. His ex-fiancée and Lorraine's great friend, Amalfi Gordon.

‘She's lovely, isn't she?' sighed Dany wistfully, speaking aloud without realizing it.

‘Is she?' said Mr Holden coldly.

He directed a brief scowling glance at the Vision, and turned his back on it. But Mrs Gordon had seen him.

‘Why — Lash!' Her warm, throaty voice was clearly audible even above the babble of the crowded lounge, but Mr Holden affected to be deaf.

It did him no good. Mrs Gordon descended upon him in a wave of scented sweetness. ‘Lash, darling — it's lovely to see you! I was so afraid you'd decide not to come after all.'

‘Why?' demanded Lash haughtily. ‘This started out as a business trip, and it can stay that way. You surely didn't think that I'd cancel it just because you decided to transfer your affections to some gilded Italian gigolo, did you?'

Mrs Gordon tucked a slender, gloved hand under his arm and gazed up at him from a pair of enormous sea-green eyes; her long soft lashes fluttering appealingly.

No one had ever been able to stay seriously angry with Amalfi Gordon for any length of time. Exasperated, yes. But it was an accepted fact that dear, soft-hearted, feather-headed Elf simply couldn't help it. If she fell into love, or out of it, and hurt people thereby, it wasn't her fault. She never meant to hurt.

Mrs Gordon made a
moue
and said: ‘Sweetie, you're not sulking, are you?'

‘Of course I'm not!' snapped Lash, descending rapidly from the haughty to the frankly furious. ‘What would I have to sulk about? I am, on the contrary, deeply thankful. And now run along back to your Mediterranean bar-fly, there's a good girl.'

Amalfi gave his arm a little coaxing tug. ‘Darling, aren't you being just a
tiny
bit kindergarten? Eddie's marvellous!'

‘You mean Eddie's a Marchese!' retorted Lash bitterly. ‘That's the operative word, isn't it? And you're just another sucker for a title! Apart from that, what's he got that I haven't?'

‘Manners,' said Amalfi sweetly. And withdrawing her hand she turned away and rejoined her two cavaliers without having even glanced at Dany.

‘How d'you like that?' demanded Lash indignantly. ‘
Manners!
I suppose if I bowed and scraped and went about kissing women's hands
____
'

He broke off and subsided into deep gloom, from which he was presently aroused by another clutch at his arm. But this time it was Dany, and he saw that she was staring in wide-eyed alarm at a thin, boney, dark-skinned Oriental in a blue lounge suit, who carried a brief-case, a neatly rolled umbrella and very new bur-berry.

‘It's him!' said Dany in a feverish, ungrammatical whisper.

‘Who? The one you think you saw in Market-something, or the one you saw in the hotel?'

‘In the hotel. But — but perhaps it's both!'

‘Nuts! The world is full of Oriental gentlemen — they come in all sizes. And anyway, what of it? He was probably staying at the Airlane. You were. I was. And so, as it happens, were Elf and that slick owner-driver. And we're all flying to Nairobi. Why not him?'

‘But suppose he recognizes me? I was standing right next to him!'

Lash turned and surveyed her with a distinctly jaundiced eye, and remarked caustically that it was extremely doubtful if her own mother would recognize her at the moment. To which he added a rider to the effect that if she was going to lose her nerve every twenty minutes she had better give up the whole idea after all and run off back to her Aunt Harriet, as he did not fancy the prospect of being saddled with a spineless and probably inefficient secretary who suffered from frequent attacks of the vapours. A trenchant observation that acted upon Dany's agitated nervous sytem with the bracing effect of a bucketful of cold water, and stiffened her wavering resolution. She cast Mr Lashmer Holden a look of active dislike, and preceded him into the aircraft in chilly silence.

No one had questioned her identity, and if there were any plain-clothes police among the crowds at the airport she did not identify them. The stewardess said: ‘Will you please fasten your seat belts,' and then they were taxi-ing down the long runway. The propellors roared and the airport slipped away from them: tilted, levelled out and dwindled to the proportions of a child's toy. They were safely away.

‘Well, it seems we made it,' remarked Lash affably, unfastening his seat-belt and lighting a cigarette.

He accepted a cup of coffee from the stewardess and added the remains of his flask to it. He seemed surprised that there was no more.

‘Why, hell — I only filled it half an hour ago! No — I guess it must have been earlier than that. Oh well, plenty more where it came from. Happy landings! How are you feeling, by the way?'

‘Sleepy,' said Dany.

‘That's odd. So'm I. A very good night to you.'

He settled himself comfortably and was instantly asleep, and Dany, looking at him resentfully, was annoyed to find that her own head was nodding. She had no intention of wasting her time in sleep. This was her very first flight, and although the circumstances under which she was making it were, to say the least of it, unusual, she was not going to miss a moment of it. Soon they would be passing over the Channel. France … Switzerland. Looking down on the snowy peaks of the Alps. On the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc. Over the mountains to Italy. No, of course she could not sleep …

4

Dany awoke with a start to find the stewardess once again urging her to fasten her seat belt. ‘We shall be coming in to land in a few minutes.'

‘Land? Where?' inquired Dany dazedly.

‘Naples. Do you think you could fasten your friend's belt? I don't seem to be able to wake him.'

Dany performed this task with some difficulty, Mr Holden remaining immobile throughout. He did not even wake when the plane touched down, and the stewardess gave up the unequal struggle, and in defiance of regulations, left him there.

Dany climbed over him to join the other passengers who were being ushered out into the dazzling sunlight of the Naples aerodrome, and feeling quite incapable of any conversation, affected not to see Larry Dowling, who had given her a friendly smile as she passed him.

A curious mixture of lunch and tea was served in the dining-room of the airport, but Dany was in no mood to be critical, and she ate everything that was placed before her, surprised to find herself so hungry. Prompted by caution she had selected a table as far as possible from her fellow passengers, and from this vantage point she studied them with interest; realizing that among them, still unidentified, were two more guests bound for
Kivulimi.
Tyson's sister, Augusta Bingham, and her friend Miss — Boots? No. Bates.

It was, she reflected, the greatest piece of luck that she should have been suffering from measles on the only occasion on which this new step-aunt had suggested coming to see her, and that she had selfishly put off calling on Mrs Bingham at the Airlane on Wednesday evening. She had so nearly done so. But there had been the film of
Blue Roses,
and then there had been the choice between doing her duty by introducing herself to her step-aunt, or going to the theatre that evening — and the theatre had won.

Glancing round the dining-room, Dany decided that the two women she was looking for were obviously the two who had seated themselves at Mrs Gordon's table, for the older one bore a distinct resemblance to Tyson. The same blunt nose and determined chin. Yes, that must be Augusta Bingham: a middle-aged woman whose greying hair had been given a deep-blue rinse and cut by an expert, and whose spare figure showed to advantage in an equally well-cut suit of lavender shantung.

Mrs Bingham wore a discreet diamond brooch and two rows of excellent pearls, and looked as though she played a good game of bridge, belonged to several clubs and took an interest in gossip and clothes. Her neighbour, in marked contrast, conveyed an instant impression of Girl Guides, No Nonsense and an efficiently-run parish. Undoubtedly, Miss Bates.

Miss Bates, who despite the heat wore a sensible coat and skirt and an uncompromisingly British felt hat of the pudding-basin variety, provided a most effective foil for Amalfi Gordon, who was sitting opposite her. Mrs Gordon had discarded her mink cape and was looking cool and incredibly lovely in lime-green linen. How does she do it? wondered Dany, studying her with a faintly resentful interest. She's old! She was at school with Mother, and she's been married almost as many times. Yet she can still look like that!