Death in Zanzibar (2 page)

She had also had a commission to execute for Lorraine, who had asked her to call on Tyson's solicitor, Mr Honeywood, in Market-Lydon in Kent, to collect a document that Tyson would like her to bring out for him.
‘This is the address,'
wrote Lorraine.
‘It's his house, not his office, as he's more or less retired now. I do hope this won't be an awful bore for you, darling, and of course the person who should really be doing this is Gussie Bingham, or that hearty girl-friend of hers, as they live practically on his doorstep. But Tyson says Gussie is an unreliable gossip with a memory like a sieve, and so he would far rather you did it. I do hope you won't mind, baby? Tyson has written to Mr Honeywood and told him that you'll call for it on the afternoon of the twelfth, between three and four, and that he's to have it ready for you. You won't forget, darling, will you?'

Dany had duly gone down to Kent, though as she had wanted to fit in a cinema in the afternoon as well as a theatre that night, she had rung up Mr Honeywood and changed the time to eleven-fifteen in the morning instead. That had been yesterday. And now it was the last day: really the last day. Tomorrow she would be flying eastward — to Zanzibar!

Ever since Lorraine had married Tyson Frost, Dany had dreamed of going to Zanzibar. She had ransacked the local library and spent her pocket-money on books about the island:
Princes of Zinj, Isle of Cloves,
and a dozen others. Books that told the saga of the great Seyyid Saïd, Imam of Muscat and first Sultan of Zanzibar. And of such things as the underground wells whose waters were said to come from far inland in Africa, the haunted palace of Dunga and the sacred drums of Zanzibar, the vast legendary treasure buried by Seyyid Saïd in Bet-el-Ras; the horrors of the slave trade and the pirate raids, and the witch-haunted island of Pemba, home of devils, djinns and warlocks.

Europeans were not permitted to hold land in Zanzibar, but long ago Tyson's grandfather — that rowdy, roving, colourful adventurer, Emory Frost — had done a service to the great Saïd, and his reward had been the lease of a house,
Kivulimi,
for a period of a hundred and fifty years. Tyson's visits there were irregular and brief, but as this year happened to be the seventieth anniversary of Emory's death, and he intended to write a book based upon the life and times of that fabulous character, he had descended upon
Kivulimi,
complete with wife, private secretary and an assortment of guests. And Dany's dream had at last come true.

‘Then I'll go sailing far, off to Zanzibar — though my dream places seem — better than they really are…'
Dany slid out of bed, crooning a snatch from a song that had been popular when she was in the fourth form; and as she did so something moved at the far side of the room and she started violently and bit her tongue. But it was only her own reflection in the looking-glass, and she made a face at it, and going to the dressing-table, picked up the new lizard-skin bag and rummaged through it for a slip of paper on which she had written down the time that the bus for the Airport left the Terminal. It did not seem to be there, and she was about to try one of the drawers when she remembered that it was in the pocket of the camel-hair coat that she had left in the ladies' room on the previous evening, and forgotten to retrieve. She would have to remember to fetch it after breakfast.

Once again something made her jump nervously; a soft slapping sound in the corridor outside that she identified a moment later as the morning papers, dropped by a page-boy whose feet had made no sound on the thick pile of the carpet. She could not understand why she should be so ridiculously on edge this morning; she had never previously been given to nerves. Perhaps this curious feeling of tension was something that everyone experienced when they first realized that they were entirely on their own? If so, she could only hope it did not last long! Giving the page-boy a minute or two to leave the corridor, she crossed to the door. Tea would not be arriving for at least another hour and a half, and she might as well fill in the time by reading the papers.

The corridor was silent and empty, its lushly carpeted length punctuated by white and gold doors, numerous pairs of freshly polished shoes and a varied assortment of daily newspapers. Dany stepped out cautiously and picked up her own selection, the
Daily Dawn.
And as she did so her eye was caught by the heading of a column:
‘Man Murdered in Market-Lydon'.

She opened the paper and stared at it, frowning. Market-Lydon…? Why, that was where she had been yesterday! The little town where
____

There was a sharp click immediately behind her and she whirled round. But it was too late. The draught had blown the door shut behind her and she was locked out in the corridor.

Dany dropped the paper and pushed futilely at the door. But it possessed a spring lock and remained blandly impervious to her efforts, and she turned from it to stare helplessly up and down the silent corridor. There was, fortunately, no one in sight, but she could see no sign of a bell either; and even if there had been one she could hardly use it when the chances were that it would be answered by a man.

For the first time Dany regretted the purchase of that diaphanous and far too expensive nightgown. Nylon and lace might be enchantingly frivolous, but its purpose appeared to be to reveal rather than conceal, and she was only too well aware that to all intents and purposes she might just as well be naked. Why, oh why had she flung away those sensible, high-necked and sacklike garments of white winceyette that Aunt Harriet had considered to be the only suitable and modest night wear? If only
____

It was at this inopportune moment that footsteps sounded on the staircase that led into the corridor some twenty feet from her door.

Despite the heavy pile of the carpet the footsteps were clearly audible and noticeably uneven, and they were accompanied by a male voice singing in a blurred undertone the same song that had recently been running through Dany's head.

‘
“I want to go away — be a stowaway,”
' announced the gentleman on the staircase, ‘
“Take a trip, on a ship, let my troubles
____
”
blast!' The singer stumbled noisily on the stairs, and something — possibly a hat? — bounced down them.

Inspiration born of despair descended upon Dany, and snatching up the fallen newspaper she retired hastily behind the front page of the
Daily Dawn
just as the owner of the voice reached the top of the stairs and turned into the corridor.

He proved to be a tall, dishevelled young man in formal evening dress, wearing his white tie several inches off centre, and carrying a gaily coloured balloon and a large and fluffy toy cat with a pink ribbon round its neck. His dark hair was in a state of considerable disorder, and quite apart from his undeniably festive appearance he possessed an indefinable air of what an earlier generation would have termed ‘rakishness'.

He stood for a moment or two swaying slightly and looking vaguely about him, and then his gaze alighted upon Dany.

‘Well, say!' said the young man, saying it in an unmistakably transatlantic voice: ‘what do you know about that!'

He advanced until he was level with her, and then as the full beauty of her situation dawned upon him he gave way to immoderate mirth, and stood before her laughing his head off, while Dany glared back at him like an angry kitten, scarlet cheeked, helpless and infuriated.

‘Be quiet!' hissed Dany, ‘you'll wake everyone up! Do you know what time it is?'

‘
“Three o'clock in the mor … ning, I've danced the whole night through!”
' carolled the young man, throwing his head back and giving it everything he had got in a blurred but pleasing baritone.

‘And you look like it!' said Dany in a furious whisper. ‘But it's nearly six now, and I want to get back into my room. Don't just stand there laughing!
Do
something! Get me a pass key — anything! Can't you see I'm locked out?'

‘I can,' said the young man. ‘And let me tell you that I haven't seen anything better in days. No, sir! It's a pity that your taste in newspapers didn't run to a smaller sized sheet, but who am I to carp and c-cavil? Let's face it, it might have been
The Times.
Not, le' me tell you, that you look like a dame who reads
The Times.
No, I sh'd say
____
'

‘
Will
you be quiet?' demanded Dany frantically. ‘And if you aren't going to help, go away! No — no, don't do that! For goodness sake get me a pass key.'

‘Sure,' said the young man cordially. ‘Any li'l thing you say. Here, hold the children.'

He handed over the balloon and the white cat, and Dany, making a rash attempt to accept them, came dangerously near to losing the front page of the
Daily Dawn
in the process. The balloon bounced out of reach and the white cat fell to the floor.

‘Now look what you've done!' said the young man reproachfully. ‘You've dropped Asbestos. Have you no compassion on dumb animals? He may be heat-resistant, but he doesn't like being kicked around.'

He retrieved the cat and hunted through his waistcoat pockets with his left hand. ‘Don't rush me. I know I had it some place. Ah, here we are! Madam — no. No wedding ring. That's good. Miss — your key.'

He held out a door key with a courtly bow.

‘But that
isn't
my key,' said Dany on the verge of shedding tears of sheer exasperation. ‘It's yours!'

‘Why, so it is! You know something? you're a very intelligent girl. You may even read
The Times.
A pity. Well, I'll tell you what. You can't stand there for everyone to take a look at; 'tisn't decent — besides being darned chilly. I'm parked in that room over there, and I guess you'd better go right in and wait while I fetch some gilded flunkey to batter down your door. O.K.? Don't mention it: my fam'ly motto has always been “Never Give a Sucker an Even Break”. Let's go.'

He tacked across the corridor, humming gently, and after a couple of unsuccessful tries succeeded in opening the door of the room opposite Dany's.

‘There you are,' he said in the self-congratulatory tone of one who has performed an intricate conjuring trick: ‘Move right in. We Holdens are nothing if not hospitable. Make yourself at home. And if there's any little thing you fancy, such as a blanket or a bath towel or a bathrobe, jus' go right ahead and wrap it up. The joint's yours. I'll be right back.'

He bowed again, sweeping the floor in an old-world gesture with the white cat, and removed himself.

Dany did not move until he was out of sight (the
Daily Dawn
did not meet round the back) but as soon as it was safe to do so she crossed the corridor at a run and took refuge in his room.

It was in darkness, for the curtains were still drawn, and she switched on the lights and saw that the bed had been neatly turned down and a pair of maroon-coloured pyjamas laid out upon it. There was also a bottle-green dressing-gown hanging over the back of a chair, and she reached for it thankfully. It was far too large, but all the more welcome for that; for Dany, though slim, was by no means short, and it covered her adequately from throat to ankle, allowing no more than a glimpse of bare feet.

A small travelling-clock on the bedside table informed her that it was already ten minutes to six, and from behind the heavily curtained windows she could hear the muted rumble of the early morning traffic. But there were as yet no sounds of movement from inside the hotel, and Dany sat down on the edge of the bed and prepared to wait.

The room was an almost exact counterpart of her own, though a good deal tidier, and it contained one slightly surprising object: a large photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful woman that stood on the dressing-table, expensively framed in silver and inscribed largely across one corner ‘To Lash — with all my love for always — Elf'. It was not, however, the film-star features or the extravagant inscription that was surprising, but the fact that someone had draped the frame in a length of black crêpe, drawn a heavy line through the word ‘always' and substituted tersely above it, and in red ink, ‘September'.

Dany was engaged in studying these interesting additions when her eye was caught by something else: a familiar coloured label on a suitcase that stood on a chair by the dressing-table. Lashmer J. Holden, Jnr, it would appear, was also intending to fly to Zanzibar via Nairobi.

Holden … Why, of course! Lorraine had mentioned him. American and something to do with publishing. He was going to see Tyson about some book or other, and to spend his honeymoon in Zanzibar. Although if that photograph was anything to go by … A cold draught of air blew through the room and billowed the curtains, and a quantity of letters that had been carelessly propped against a china ornament on the writing-table fluttered to the ground and lay strewn across the carpet.

Dany rose and replaced them, noting as she did so that Mr Holden's correspondents appeared to be numerous, but unexciting; the large majority of the envelopes being of the strictly utilitarian variety with the address typewritten on them, and having apparently come from various secretarial agencies.

She stacked them in a neat pile and put them back, and then stopped to retrieve the discarded sheet of newspaper. And as she did so her gaze fell on a word in black type:
‘Murder'.

‘Man Murdered in Market-Lydon. Retired Solicitor Found Shot. Mr H. T. Honeywood…'

But it couldn't be! There must be some mistake. It couldn't possibly be Tyson's Mr Honeywood. That small, dried-up, disapproving solicitor. It must be someone with the same name. People one had met — people one knew — were never murdered. But there was no mistake. Here was his name. And his address: the prim grey-stone house standing back from the road behind a high wall and an ugly screen of wet laurels. Dany sat down slowly on the bed and read the incredible column of close print.