Treasure of the Golden Cheetah (12 page)

“Yes, but that is not magic, Jelani. That is prayer.”

Jelani stood. “The Kikuyu pray to the Maker, too. We pray with beads and plants and our chants. You do not have to believe in magic, Simba Jike. You only have to believe in my prayers. I have come to protect you. And I will.”

He walked off, his head high, his step proud. Jade watched him and sighed. Under her breath she muttered softly, “Just no stinky prayers, please.”

 

 

THE SECOND-FLOOR WAITING room had comfortable chairs, and the curtained windows let in just enough light to see while holding back the strong afternoon glare.

“Dr. Mathews will see you now, Mr. Featherstone,” said the nurse, a woman in starched whites with an expression out of the same starch vat.

“Thank you, Nurse.” He followed her into the doctor’s examining room.

“Mr. Featherstone?” said the doctor, rising to shake Sam’s hand. “The nurse said you would not give her a reason for your call.” He observed Sam’s slight limp. “Is your leg troubling you?”

Sam sat in a black leather chair and rapped his knuckles against his lower right leg. “No, Still solid. No termites.” He took advantage of the doctor’s stunned silence and went straight to the point. “I’m interested in that native man that killed the American at the Muthaiga Club the other night. I was there, if you recall, and witnessed the man stab himself in the chest. As I remember, you made an observation to Inspector Finch that the man may have been under the influence of some drug.”

Dr. Mathews’ right hand went to his clean-shaven chin and stroked it absentmindedly, as one would a goatee. Sam wondered if he’d recently shaved one off. He thought he detected a paler hue from the rest of the well-tanned face. The doctor had the appearance of an outdoorsman, a man of action.

“Ah, Mr. Featherstone,” said Mathews, “I am not certain I understand your purpose here. Are you a reporter? Or a criminologist?”

“No, sir,” said Sam. “I’m a pilot and an engineer, and neither of those has any bearing on this case. But I am interested in the young lady who also saw the stabbing. She’s on safari with the rest of the Americans right now, somewhere up on Kilimanjaro. I want to make sure she’s not in any danger.”

The doctor’s lips twitched. “Ah, Miss del Cameron. Lovely young lady. Naturally, you are interested. Of course. But the native man who murdered the American is now dead. So what harm could come to her?”

Sam ran his hand through his hair. “Well, sir, that would frankly take too long to explain adequately. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

Trust me!
That was what Jade kept telling him.

Mathews pulled open a drawer and took out a leather-bound notebook. He opened it, flipped past several pages, and paused to read. “It is an interesting case, Mr. Featherstone, although I’m certain there is no mystery here. So I feel quite safe in telling you this. I noticed that the native had very dilated eyes. Of course, it was night, but he was found lying within a bright pool of light from an outside lamp. During that struggle, I would have expected him to stare into that light at least once.”

“So his pupils would have constricted then.”

“Correct. But that is, of course, hypothetical at best. Still, a man does not stab himself easily. It suggested strong agitation. And he’d clawed at himself. I also noted that he wore only a cloth wrapped around his loins.” He stopped to examine his notes again.

“Is that so unusual, Doctor?” asked Sam.

“No. But the white cloth was made of a poor-quality linen. The Kikuyu and Wakamba tribesmen who still sometimes opt for undress despite the law tend to wear a tanned animal skin or a castoff pair of shorts. I have never seen one with a linen wrap.”

“So he was not one of the local tribesmen,” summarized Sam.

“That was my conclusion. I mentioned as much to Inspector Finch. I believe he was hoping to find the man’s identity and has sent a set of fingerprints to Mombassa.”

“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with whether or not the man was drugged, Doctor.”

Mathews nodded. “Nothing as yet. But something about his garment made me wonder if he’d removed others first. Perhaps with a mind to keeping them free of blood from his victim. The inspector agreed and had his men conduct a search for any clothes. They found a white robe, also cheap linen, but it was ripped at the throat and the sleeves.”

Sam leaned forward. “Freshly ripped? Or as if they were just old clothes?”

The doctor smiled. “Ah, you have a clever mind, Mr. Featherstone. You think of alternatives. They
were
freshly rent. The man seemed to have torn them off of himself, just as he tried to scratch his skin off. That suggested to me the poison found in datura. I was in India and the Thugees used it to poison robbery victims. Plucking at one’s skin or the air and pulling off the clothes as though they irritated the skin was common, as were dilated pupils.”

“Was it datura?”

“My autopsy indicates it was. I found venous congestion of the brain among other symptoms. I have made a sort of study of poisons, you see.”

“I’m confused,” said Sam. “You said this substance was given to robbery
victims
? But it wasn’t the victim, Wheeler, who had taken it.”

“No. But in smaller doses, it can make the user feel invincible, render him impervious to pain, and cause erratic behavior. So if this man took it, even accidentally, he was acting under its influence. That is why he killed Mr. Wheeler. We also found a leather flask of sorts with his clothes. Some sort of alcohol inside. I tested it for a vegetable mydriatic alkaloid with a Vitali’s test. Very simple. A few drops of nitric acid, evaporate to dry, add potassium hydroxide.” The doctor rattled off the steps as though they were known to anyone. “A positive result is a particularly vivid reddish violet color.” He finished by clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “The short of it is, Mr. Featherstone, that the man is dead and not on the mountain with your young lady.”

Sam leaned forward and fixed his gaze on the doctor’s face. “No, sir. There still remains a very important question. Did this native take the poison on his own or was it given to him by someone else? Someone still out there. Maybe even on Kilimanjaro.”

CHAPTER 7

—The Traveler

“NO! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE SECRETLY IN LOVE WITH
HER
. You’re acting more like you’re stuck on her husband.” Julian ranted for two minutes over the scene, to the amusement of the Chagga men who’d come every day to watch the antics and sometimes to play in a scene. “Now try it again, Hank, and get it right this time.”

“How was I, Rex?” asked Cynthia.

“Not bad, but I need more. Remember, you’re conflicted, torn. You love your husband, but you know you’re losing him to this illusion of his. You’re tempted to collapse into Hank’s arms. I want to see that struggle.”

Wells and Cynthia took their positions again, she next to Hall in front of the tent.

Jade leaned against an old orange tree and watched. Biscuit lay at her feet, his tongue lolling. Three days had passed since the stocking snake incident and two days since someone had rigged a pot of cold water to dump on the first person who entered the privy one morning. That day it was Harry, and after he’d roared at the crew, not much else had happened short of some items that had gone missing. Bebe and Pearl lost makeup, Hall lost his suspenders, and Homerman’s keys routinely disappeared.

Bebe and Pearl were both slobs, so it was no wonder their items weren’t immediately at hand. Hall’s suspenders had reappeared hanging from a mango tree fork, where some fun-loving person had used them as a slingshot to fire ripe fruit, and Homerman, Jade concluded, was an incompetent boob, pure and simple.

In the end, everyone had settled into the routines at camp and accepted the discomforts without too much grumbling. Jade found herself actually respecting and even liking some of them. Brown and Budendorfer might be practical-joking scamps, but their good-natured personalities made it hard even for Harry to dislike them. Bebe was a consummate professional, but once she was off-camera, she was hopeless on safari. Cynthia, on the other hand, had obviously roughed it before and even lent a hand around the camp. Jade caught the widow with a sad, faraway look in her eyes, and thought she might be attempting to keep busy rather than confront her loss. It was a concept Jade appreciated. Work was often a good remedy for sorrow.

Jade’s own work was limited, now that they’d arrived, leaving her time for silent reflection and for poker games with Talmadge, Wells, and Murdock. She felt like screaming from boredom. She longed to attempt the climb to the summit, or even to spend more time in the forest, but there was little need for her to go out of camp, nor did Harry want her to.

“You’re not leaving me alone with those women,” he’d said.

“Ah, balderdash, Harry,” she’d retorted. “I’ve seen you strut past them. You’d
love
to be alone with them.”

At least yesterday’s excursion to the French Catholic mission at Kilema had given Jade an opportunity to see more than clusters of tents and overgrown orchards. She rubbed her calves again. The four-mile hike overland to the mission had taken her across bridges of felled timber and along winding trails used by both the Chagga and smaller game animals. On the return trip, Jade had spied a colony of tree hyrax that screamed when she passed by.

Nakuru, more familiar with the mountain than Jade, had accompanied her both ways. Jelani, to her surprise, had not. When she’d asked why, he’d explained that, at present, she was in no danger outside of camp. Now her gaze drifted from the actors to her tent, which was festooned with feather fetishes and marked with charcoal symbols, evidence of Jelani’s “prayers.”

“That’s it, Conrad,” said Mr. Julian. “Look off up towards the mountain. You can hear it calling to you.”

“You can’t see it for the forest down here,” muttered Harry as he joined Jade. A scruffy growth of brown whiskers flecked with gray coated his chin, accentuating his strong jawline. He’d unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, exposing a tuft of chest hair.

Jade wondered whom he was trying to impress with his rough looks. She shifted a little to make room for him. “I think,” she replied, “they’ll cut in some scenes showing the mountain.”

As they watched, Bebe, dressed in a white robe, slunk beside Hall and pointed up, murmuring entreaties. She kissed his hand and whispered into his ear, all the while casting a triumphant sneer towards the hapless wife.

“Good gad,” said Harry. “Bebe’s look would curdle milk. She’s quite an actress.”

“Hmm,” mused Jade. “Yes, she is, but I’m not sure she’s acting there. I don’t think she likes Miss Porter.”

“Wonderful, Bebe,” exclaimed Julian. “You know you possess him now. Hank, that’s your cue. Try to turn him around.”

Wells took three long strides towards the mesmerized Hall and placed one hand on his right shoulder. He pleaded, pointing to the stricken wife with one hand, tugging with the other.

“Cynthia, you cannot abide this any longer. Fling yourself at his feet,” shouted Julian.

Cynthia did, grabbing Conrad’s free hand. “Turn, Conrad,” prompted Julian. “Look at the woman at your feet. Look at your friend. You don’t know who they are anymore. You’re a king! How dare they lay hands on you.”

Hall’s face underwent the requisite contortions, from confusion to pride followed by fury until he threw Cynthia’s hand from him, striking her across the face. Bebe positively crowed with glee as she wrapped her arms around her reincarnated king.

“Comfort her, Hank. You love her. You long to tell her. Great! Cut!” He motioned for Budendorfer to move the camera back. “Listen, people. We’re almost finished with this setting. We’re going to shoot some scenes in a native village this afternoon. Then tomorrow, we’re heading high up the mountain above the forest. Make sure all the Menelik stuff is ready to go. We’re going to shoot his expedition first.”

He looked around, searching for someone. “Hascombe.”

Harry pushed himself away from the tree and straightened. “Wait till he finds out that we can’t leave that soon,” he mumbled. “What do you need, Mr. Julian?”

“I need that translator. He told me yesterday that there’s an old man in one of the villages who can help me.”

“There’s an old man in every one of the villages,” Harry said. “What makes this one so blasted special?” He folded his arms across his chest, peering down at the director in a lordly manner.

“He’s had some stories handed down to him for generations. I think he knows something about this Menelik legend.”

Harry looked at Jade and half rolled his eyes. “By all means. But I wasn’t told about this, so I doubt we’ll go today. Do you even know where this village is?”