Tall, Dark And Deadly

“I don’t think so.” She looked around the room hopefully, but no one spoke up. “I used the side steps to the second-floor veranda. Then I went directly to my room and to bed.”

Kantana wrote on his pad and then one by one asked each of the other guests their whereabouts from ten o’clock until the body was found. He listened carefully to the responses.

“So,” he said as he completed the rounds, “each of you was alone in your bedroom—”

“Yassif and I were together,” Betty announced, reaching for her lover’s hand. “Some of us have nothing to worry about. We have alibis.”

“Some of us have been known to lie.” That was Alex. His remark caused Betty’s face to redden. She opened her mouth to reply and then thought better of it.

Kantana continued without missing a beat. “With the exception of Mademoiselle Weston and Monsieur Al-Aram, who were together—so they say—and my friend Alex, who was in his office.”

“I often stay up late,” came Alex’s response.

Kantana got to his feet. “Now I must ask your further indulgence. At this time we will search your rooms.”

Millicent reacted immediately. “Search our rooms? Surely, you joke, Sergeant. Why in the world? The man was killed with a blow dart. Obviously by someone right here in Porte Ivoire—”

Kantana’s reply was as smooth as silk. “So it would seem, as you say, considering the murder weapon. But we have reasons to look elsewhere.”

“Why?” Millicent shot back.

“We found a passport and a wallet filled with cash on the body. What does that mean to you?” he asked the room in general.

Longongo responded, speaking for the first time that morning in his high nasal voice with his impeccable clipped syllables. “It negates the prime motive, perhaps the only one, for murder by a local person, namely robbery. Which means one of us must have another motive. What would that be?”

“I do not know yet,” Kantana admitted, “but I expect to uncover the motive along with the means and the opportunity. And when all three come together, I shall have my killer.”

He snapped his notebook shut, and Dana shivered again. She’d pulled on shorts and a T-shirt when the clerk awakened her. Now, in the cool of dawn, she needed something warmer.

“If I could go to my room for a moment first—” she said to Kantana.

“No, mademoiselle. That would defeat our purpose.”

“I don’t understand. I just need to get something warm to put on—”

“Nothing will be removed until after our search.” His voice had a sharp edge.

Once again, she was made to feel guilty. And just because she was cold.

“Each of you will remain here until the search is completed.” With a slight bow, he turned and went out, followed by his aide.

* * *

THE MORNING seemed interminable. The hotel cooks prepared and set out breakfast, but no one seemed to have much of an appetite. Dana picked at a bowl of fruit, and everyone else did, too. Most of them drank innumerable cups of coffee, including Alex, who had switched from cognac.

When Kantana came downstairs from his search of the guests’ rooms, he commandeered Alex’s office to interview the guests—or suspects, as Dana had begun to think of herself and the others. She tried to give the word a sardonic twist in her mind because it was ridiculous, of course, to think any of them might have murdered Louis Bertrand, but she was still nervous.

Someone had murdered him, and Kantana seemed convinced that it wasn’t a citizen of Porte Ivoire but one of the guests in the Stanley Hotel, or Alex himself, or even Father Theroux.

Slowly they went into the office one by one. First Longongo and then Millicent completed their interviews and returned to their rooms. Yassif was next.

Dana waited silently while Alex disappeared into the kitchen, apparently to communicate with his staff, and Betty paced nervously up and down, glancing at the closed door.

“Don’t worry,” Dana assured her, “Yassif is a big boy. He can answer his own questions.”

Betty puffed out her cheeks and then fell down onto the love seat. “It’s just that he doesn’t speak English very well. His French is worse.”

“Kantana is very patient,” Dana said, wondering suddenly why she should be attempting to pacify Betty, of all people.

“I’m also concerned because our relationship is so new. I’m a little overprotective of Yassif.”

Dana couldn’t find anything encouraging to say about that. She really didn’t want to talk about Betty’s romance with the surly Yassif.

But Betty did. “We met at a party in Brazzaville just before the trip upriver.”

“Did Millicent introduce you?” Dana was curious about that.

Betty bristled. “Yassif and Millicent? Of course not, he’d never be seen with someone like her.”

“I saw them together on the Congo Queen, several times.” A little perverse of her to mention that, Dana realized, but she couldn’t resist.

“And I saw you talk with Louis. Yet you and he weren’t friends, or so you say.” Betty raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Give it a rest, Betty.” That was Alex, appearing at the doorway. “You’re not going to get a story out of this.”

“That’s what you’re after?” Dana asked, confronting Betty. “You want to write about Louis’s death!”

She shrugged. “Why not? A good juicy murder is certainly more interesting than a piece about wildlife of the Congo.”

Dana couldn’t control her disgust. Betty was thinking about this whole horrible episode as a magazine story and had no feelings at all for poor Louis, dead less than twelve hours. Dana mentally took off the gloves. Betty wasn’t going to get any sympathy from her.

Apparently, no one would get sympathy from Alex, who leaned against the lobby doorway, his face unreadable. Dana avoided his eyes, but Betty glared angrily at him. Then she was called by Kantana, and Dana was left alone with Alex.

She felt awkward and uncomfortable around him, with the remembrance of their scene in the garden fresh in her mind. But there was something else going on that she couldn’t put her finger on. He seemed to be studying her intently, as if he was sizing her up. Could he possibly think she was involved in Louis’s death?

Deciding that the best defense was a strong offense, she asked, “Did you go directly to your office last night after you left me in the garden?”

“Playing detective, Dana?”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” she replied. Which was true. She was curious about Alex and where he’d been while she and Louis were by the river. He easily could have followed them.

Alex strolled to the buffet table and poured a cup of coffee. “I’ll answer your question because I have nothing to hide—unlike some of the guests.” His smile was ingenuous. “After our rendezvous in the garden where you obviously misunderstood my overtures of friendship—”

Dana gritted her teeth at his cynical misrepresentation of the episode.

“—I went to my office, spurned and saddened, to bury myself in work.” His eyes sparkled with humor as he watched her surprised reaction. “Good story, isn’t it? In fact, I don’t have an alibi, but neither do you. And you were the last to see Louis alive,” he added softly.

Dana quickly defended herself. “But you were the one who argued with him.”

Before Alex could respond, the office door opened and Betty emerged. The supercilious look on the redhead’s face caused Dana’s heart to sink; it was a look that bore her no goodwill.

An aide ushered Dana into Alex’s office to face the sergeant. Her knees were shaky, and her heart was pounding like a drum. For no reason! She had nothing to be afraid of.

Kantana sat behind Alex’s desk looking solemn and official. The tall, sullen-looking officer dressed in khaki stood behind Kantana staring straight ahead. The sergeant gestured to a straight-backed chair. Dana sank onto it, wiping her damp palms against her shorts. What more could he ask her? What more could she tell him? The silence became ominous and oppressive. And when Kantana finally spoke to her, she jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?

Dana leaned forward to look at what he held in his hand. She recognized it immediately, a long wooden tube, intricately carved. She recalled pictures in her father’s notes, descriptions of an ancient weapon still used by the Pygmies. What Kantana held in his hand was a blowgun.

“I know what it is, but I’ve never seen that one before.”

“Ah, yes.” Kantana put down the weapon and carefully touched his fingertips together, forming a kind of tent with his elegant hands. He leaned back in his chair and spoke in a low voice. “Then how, mademoiselle, do you explain its presence in your room?”

Dana couldn’t believe the question. “You couldn’t have found that in my room. I’ve never seen it in my life!”

“But it was found in your room, mademoiselle.”

“No. There’s been a mistake. That isn’t mine. Someone else left it in the room, maybe a previous guest—”

“No,” the sergeant said crisply. “I have interviewed the maid on your floor. She cleaned the room thoroughly before you moved in. There was nothing, certainly not a weapon. No blowgun.”

Dana was totally confused. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Sergeant. Are you trying to say that this blowgun, which you claim was found in my room, was the weapon that killed Louis?”

“I cannot positively say that. But here are the facts. A dart from a blowgun killed Monsieur Bertrand. Such a gun was found in your room. And you deny any knowledge of it.”

“I certainly do!” Dana’s confusion had turned to anger. “Your accusation is absurd. I hardly knew Louis Bertrand and had no reason to kill him, certainly not with a blowgun. I’ve never touched such a weapon, never even seen one. As far as I’m concerned, this interview is over.”

She started to get to her feet, only to be stopped by a quick move from the aide, whom Kantana controlled with a nod of his head.

“This is...ludicrous,” Dana insisted, even as she sat back down, adding defiantly, “you’re accusing the wrong person, and you’re going to be very sorry.”

He raised skeptical eyebrows. “Oh, do you think so? I show you further evidence, mademoiselle.” He placed a stack of notebooks and papers on the desk. “Detailed notes on the Pygmies. It would seem that you came very well prepared.”

Dana’s anger was replaced by a deep dread. “Those are my father’s notes. He knew about the Pygmies, not I.”

“But you brought them with you,” Kantana said smoothly.

“That was my choice.” She felt suddenly invaded, and she refused to put up with it.

“Not if murder was the result. Now tell me, why did you bring the notes with you?”

Dana chose her words carefully. “I am a language teacher, a professor specializing in rare and exotic tongues. For that reason, my father’s work with the Mgembe interested me. When I had a chance to travel a route he’d taken years before, naturally, I jumped at the opportunity.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “There’s nothing illegal about that.”

“Certainly not,” Kantana agreed. “But it is interesting, to say the least, that both you and Monsieur Bertrand shared a fascination with the Mgembe, that you carried with you notebooks filled with information on the Pygmies, and that he was killed in a way that they are known to murder.” He held up the weapon.

“I didn’t have a blowgun—either that one or any other!” she cried adamantly. “We’ve just arrived here. Where would I have found one?” She knew the answer to that question even before it was out of her mouth.

“In the market. When you went shopping with Mademoiselle Kittredge. She tells me that you were not together throughout that trip.”

“Well, no, we weren’t. I was tired and—” Dana realized that the overly friendly Millicent had passed on information that could seem incriminating. “But I didn’t buy a blowgun then or ever. Even if I had, how do you suggest I poisoned the tip?”

“The poison is also readily available, alas,” he replied with apparent sadness.

“And of course, I know exactly how to administer it,” she said sarcastically.

Kantana placed his hand on top of her father’s notebooks. “It is all here, easy for a clever woman to understand. Indeed, you are a clever woman.”

Dana didn’t like the insinuation in his voice. “Someone planted that blowgun in my room.”

Kantana shrugged, seemingly no longer interested in the topic. “I also have corroborating information that you and Monsieur Bertrand became very close friends during your voyage on the Congo Queen. Do you deny that you spent much time together?”

More incriminating information, this time from Betty’s mouth, which didn’t surprise Dana in the slightest. She was surprised about Millicent’s betrayal, though. So much for the support of her fellow tourists.

“Louis and I spent time together,” she answered finally, “but he was with Father Theroux much more often. Why don’t you question him?”

“As I mentioned, I intend to,” Kantana said coolly “But of course that is my business, the concern of the authorities. Now I ask again, could it be possible that there was a romance of some kind between you and Bertrand? Something that might have caused you to quarrel with him—”

“And to kill him? No, Sergeant. No! The idea is absurd. And you said yourself that you needed a motive—”

“Motive, means and opportunity,” Kantana said, quoting his own earlier remarks. “The latter two, we have established, have we not?”

“No, I—”

“Of course, you had both the means,” he said, touching the blowgun, “and the opportunity. You knew Louis was alone by the river, and you could have approached without alarming him. And of course, you were the last person to be seen with the victim.” He heaved a satisfied sigh. “Further, I now realize that you are an expert on the Mgembe, who have made the blowgun into an art form.”

He settled back comfortably, crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to respond.

That’s when Dana realized that she was caught up in a nightmare too horrible for her to contemplate. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. “You believe I’m guilty,” she blurted out.

He didn’t respond. His face was expressionless.

She suddenly realized was was happening. Kantana was going to arrest her!

Dana struggled to keep her voice calm. “I demand to talk to a lawyer.”

He almost chuckled. “There is no lawyer in Porte Ivoire, mademoiselle.”

“Then I demand my phone call. Surely, even here, an accused person gets at least one call. I want to talk to the American Embassy in Brazzaville.”

“This is not the United States, Mademoiselle. French law is somewhat different from yours. And as much as I would like to oblige you with a phone call, there are no phones in Porte Ivoire.”

“Then use the shortwave radio on the boat,” Dana demanded.

“I shall do this much for you,” Kantana said in noxious tones. “After I interview Father Theroux, I shall send him to talk with you in jail—”

“Jail? No!” Dana was on her feet. “You can’t do that. You can’t put me in jail—not on circumstantial evidence. You’re insane. You’re—”

She saw his face then. Cold, hard, implacable.

“I’m not guilty of this horrible crime,” she said. “I’m not guilty!”

He sat watching wordlessly.

“Why don’t you look where the guilt really lies.” She leaned forward, her hands on his desk, and spoke carefully with all the confidence she could muster. “It belongs on Alex Jourdan.”

As soon as Dana made that statement, she realized her total belief in it. His obnoxious behavior last night had sent her rushing into Louis’s arms—almost as if the whole meeting had been arranged—by Alex. And today, he’d been watchful, mysterious, not just dangerous, but possibly deadly. She’d been suspicious from the beginning. Now she knew why.

“Listen to me,” she demanded. “Alex and Louis were on the outs. Something had gone wrong between them. Everyone knew that. And I overheard them just last night, arguing about a deal of some kind. I heard them!”

“And did anyone else hear this argument, mademoiselle?”

“I don’t know. But everyone was aware of the bad blood between Alex and Louis. You can’t deny that,” she said firmly.

Kantana didn’t flinch. “I, as everyone else, knew of the bad blood between the two men. As for the recent argument, which you say that you overheard, Alex told me that he had warned Bertrand to stay away from you, Mademoiselle. It is unfortunate, is it not, that Bertrand did not listen to the warning?”

The edges of the room grew fuzzy, and Kantana and his aide faded in and out of focus. She wasn’t going to faint, but Dana thought she might be sick. She grasped the arms of the chair and sank into it, her head reeling.

“Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” she said slowly. “I’m a tourist, a college professor. I’ve never been arrested, never even gotten a traffic ticket.” She looked at Kantana pleadingly. “People like me don’t commit murder!”

Kantana shook his head sadly. “All kinds of people commit murder, mademoiselle.”

Dana couldn’t think of a response. She sat immobile before him as Kantana rose slowly and spoke to her in soft tones.

“And now, mademoiselle, I shall ask my aide to escort you to our local jail. There, we shall do all in our power to make you comfortable.”

* * *

STRANGELY, no one was around when the American was taken away. But I was watching. I suspect that everyone was watching.

Dana’s being with Louis that night had been a stroke of luck, and hiding the blowgun in her room had been an impulsive but brilliant decision. It put all the focus on her and away from the real reason behind his murder.

She’d been easy for me to set up. She knew no one; she had no connections. Justice moved slowly in the Congo, and someday she might be found innocent. But by then it wouldn’t matter. My game would be over.

Chapter Three

Alex was settled comfortably in his favorite rattan chair on the veranda, drinking a beer, contemplating the river and wondering what the hell he was going to do about his life. He didn’t look up when Maurice Longongo appeared; instead, he balanced the chair on its two back legs as was his habit and propped his foot against the porch rail.

“I hear they’ve made an arrest,” Longongo said in his precise voice.

Alex didn’t respond immediately, but that didn’t seem to bother the government official, who persisted. “The American is in jail even as we speak.”

“We’re not speaking, Longongo. You’re speaking,” Alex clarified.

“In any case, the woman is in jail.”

“Kantana thinks he has evidence,” Alex said brusquely, trying to cut off further conversation.

Longongo wasn’t discouraged. He perched on a chair beside Alex. “She hardly knew Bertrand.”

Alex shrugged.

“I cannot fathom a motive,” Longongo persisted.

“Who can figure women out? I sure as hell can’t. If I were you, I’d leave it alone. Let the policeman do his work.”

Longongo’s eyes narrowed cunningly as he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “It seems a coincidence, doesn’t it, that so many of us on the Queen were also at the Egyptian’s party in Brazzaville?”

Alex took a final swig of his beer and tossed the bottle into a nearby trash can. “Were you?” he said, barely stifling a yawn.

“Yes. A most elegant party at a large estate outside the city. I was there as a government representative, of course. Poor Louis was there also, as a merchant. I believe he supplied the wine through one of his contacts. Miss Kittredge and Miss Weston and her companion were guests, as well. Then we all turned up as passengers on the Queen. And now here we all are in Porte Ivoire.”

“Life is filled with strange coincidences, Longongo. Like the American woman’s knowledge of the Mgembe.” Alex got to his feet. “However, I’m tired of hearing about Louis and about the woman. What I need is another beer.”

He stepped into the hotel bar, leaving Longongo sitting alone in the hot afternoon sun.

* * *

THERE WERE TWO cells in the Port Ivoire jail. Only one of them was occupied. Dana sat on the side of a rickety cot, still stunned, unbelieving, almost paralyzed with fury. How dare they! She stood up and paced the eight-by-eight-foot space. The jail, and her abysmal cell, could have been a symbol for all the deterioration of Porte Ivoire.

She knew something about the town from her reading, even more from her trip into the marketplace yesterday. And she’d seen the rest on her incredible journey today from the hotel to the jail under a police escort that consisted of one ridiculous aide to Kantana and the sergeant himself.

She sat back down. What a place to be incarcerated! Once the town had been a major trading post on the Congo, shipping out ivory for the craftsmen of the East and Europe, and animals for the zoos of the world. International laws and changing mores had put an end to that, and as an environmentalist, Dana was glad of it.

But the result was a town sliding into lassitude, a place on the verge of extinction. It lay somnambulant on the bank of the river, its buildings rotting, worn down by tropical heat and humidity, its population gradually drifting away to larger cities downriver, its market the last gasp of enterprise.

The jail to which she’d been so summarily whisked away was testament to the town’s failure. A pitiful concrete block building, it stood on a dusty side street in the most neglected section of the town, Kantana’s office in front, the two cells behind. In her cell were a cot, basin and chamber pot. There was one window, about four feet off the ground, its bars rusted but still strong enough to keep her inside. Through the window, vines and bushes pushed against the jail as if the jungle were hungry to reclaim what had once belonged to it.

Not surprisingly, there was no screen across the window, and insects buzzed freely in and out, making their homes in the crevices of the walls. Soon it would be dark, and the mosquitoes would begin their invasion. It seemed absurd that she was even worried about the mosquitoes, but she could be sure they would come. She could only speculate on what else to look forward to.

Her first hope had been centered on Father Theroux. She’d expected his visit from the moment she landed in the cell, and it had finally come after more than two hours. He brought food and prayers but little in the way of encouragement.

“You know I shall do whatever possible,” he said, standing uneasily by the door.

“Then please intervene with Kantana for me. Your word will carry weight with him.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that is not the case, my child.” The priest fixed his gaze on the scene out the window as if he didn’t want to meet her eyes. “I have known Jean Luc for many years, and he has always been a very decisive, even stubborn man. Not in the least likely to change his mind.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dana snapped. “Sorry.” She didn’t want to offend him so she chose her next words more carefully. “But as an officer of the law, he has to pay attention to evidence and testimony—”

“And I imagine he would profess to have done just that. The blowgun was in your room.”

Dana’s heart plummeted at the finality of Father Theroux’s hard words spoken in such a gentle tone. “I’m innocent, Father!”

“Of course, you are, my dear. But Jean Luc can only act on the evidence at hand.”

“Then he has to look again. And again!”

“Yes, of course.” The priest hesitantly assured her, “I’ll speak to him.”

“Thank you, Father.” She leaned against the cell wall. As if the priest’s mild words would change the sergeant’s mind or convince him to reopen the investigation.

“Jean Luc is an intelligent man,” Theroux said, further discouraging her, “who usually knows what he’s doing.”

“Well, he doesn’t know this time. Unless he’s framing me on purpose,” Dana shot back. She stood up straight and looked at the priest with narrowed eyes, a spark of hope flaming momentarily. “Maybe he’s part of the setup. Maybe he’s framing me to...to protect himself! He could have killed Louis as easily as anyone else!”