Treasure of the Golden Cheetah (14 page)

Jade headed back to the house. She’d wasted enough time already and they still hadn’t picked anything to use as gifts for the Chagga.

Harry spotted her and joined her. “Did you choose something the director won’t miss?”

“On my way now,” she said, and explained the delay, showing him the newest sock snake. “This one’s not a mate to the first,” Jade said. “I suspect the first was made with one of Budendorfer’s socks. He had a hole in one pair. But this one is more like a lady’s stocking. I found it in Miss Zagar’s tent. She denies making it, of course.”

“It doesn’t look like one of hers,” Harry said. “The ones that she wore two days ago were . . .” He coughed and straightened. “Getting quite a collection, aren’t we?” he said, handing it back to her. “So we have two practical jokers. Wonderful. Burn both of them. Er, the snakes.”

They went in the front door and headed for the old kitchen. Homerman was still there, crawling around the floor, peering into cracks too small for anything to have fallen into.

“Thank our lucky stars you found them, Miss del Cameron,” he said. He snatched the keys and unlocked one of the larger trunks. “Everything for the past-times setting should be in these three trunks.”

The first one held gaudy bracelets and necklaces made of hammered tin and bronze and covered with glass jewels. A particularly large crown, like a giant golden pot with ear flaps, lay to one side.

“We can’t give away any of this,” said Homerman. He unlocked a second trunk and took out a large twelve-by-eight-by-eight-inch metal coffer and set it aside. “Not that. We need that. But we have several goblets and I don’t think we’re using them except to set around.” He pulled out one with ornate scrollwork soldered on the stem. “Would this work?”

Harry took it and turned it over in his hands. “Impressive enough to give to the chief, I’d think. Luckily, Mangi Mlaga, the current chief, doesn’t live in that village.”

Jade grabbed a brass armband shaped like a coiled snake and handed it to Harry. “Take that, too. Just in case there’s someone else we need to honor.”

Harry reached for the metal coffer and tossed the items inside. “It will be easier to carry them in this. Make a better show, too. If Julian has his way, we’ll be spending the next five days in the village filming everything under the sun. We’ll probably have to bring a gift every day.”

“As long as we don’t give them that box. I need that box,” said Homerman.

Harry handed it to the assistant. “You can be in charge of it, if it makes you feel any better.”

“And don’t forget your keys,” added Jade. She wondered if Homerman was related to Julian. She couldn’t think of any other reason why the addled little man would have been hired. Jade heard someone walk softly up to her from behind.

“Miss del Cameron,” said Bebe, “I wonder if I might speak with you, um, privately? Girl talk,” she added when neither Homerman nor Harry made a move to leave.

“Certainly,” said Jade. “Let’s go to my tent.”

“No need,” said Harry as he touched his hat brim. “We’re done here.” His gaze roved briefly over Bebe’s form before he turned to go. “If you need
me
. . .”

Bebe shook her head, and Jade waited until the two men were away before turning back to Bebe. “Now, how can I help you?” She was glad to see that the woman had calmed down. She even looked happy.

“I think you can guess,” Bebe said with a wink. She rubbed the outside of her eye with her index finger. “I seem to have begun my, er, time.” She brushed the finger across her nose.

“Ah,” said Jade. “So you’re wondering where the female supplies are kept. I thought I gave a set to everyone.” She headed for the corner where the women’s items were stored.

“You did,” Bebe said, “but I had Lwiza put them back. I didn’t think . . .” She blushed. “You must think I’m silly or very old-fashioned to be embarrassed talking to another woman, but this is actually quite a relief.”

Jade found a box of Hartmann’s and passed it to Bebe. “Think nothing of it. It’s taboo in many cultures. Dispose of these in the latrine,” she said. She didn’t add that tossing them anywhere else would likely attract predators. Why frighten the woman now that she was more relaxed, a situation that Jade found a trifle odd, considering most women dreaded this time when they were roughing it? And Bebe did not take well to roughing it.
But it appears that this is good news?
Jade considered the implications as she walked away.

INSPECTOR FINCH WAS sitting at his cramped little desk hunched over a stack of paperwork when the constable ushered Sam to his door. Seeing the man obviously embroiled in tedious forms made Sam feel a touch more sympathetic towards him. Thinking about how Finch had used Jade in July to hunt down a killer nearly eradicated that empathy.

“In there, sir,” said the constable.

Sam rapped at the doorjamb.

“Come in, Featherstone,” said Finch without looking up. “Got your message.” He scribbled his signature on several sheets and shoved them to the side. “What may I do for you? I trust this is not a social call.”

Sam took a seat in the hard wooden chair. “Hardly. I came to find out if there is anything else you can tell me about Mr. Wheeler’s murder.”

Finch set his pen in the holder next to an ink bottle and clasped his hands together on his desk. “And may I ask why you want to know?”

“Because he was part of the group that Jade has taken to Kilimanjaro. That means his death concerns her well-being and that concerns me.”

“Are you suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Inspector. But something about the entire mess stinks, and I want to know that you haven’t overlooked anything.” Sam leaned back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. “I spoke with Dr. Mathews.”

“Did you, now?”

Sam waited for Finch to make a comment, any comment. He knew the drill. His statements were being met with questions, inducing him to “confess.” It was an old game, a game invented and perfected by interrogators. This time, Sam intended to play the leading role. He settled into his chair and crossed his good leg over his false one.

Finch shrugged, as though sensing there was no point in playing the game. “I respect you, Featherstone. You’re a soldier, a warrior. So I won’t mince words.”

Sam said nothing. Flattery was also an interrogation tactic, as was torture. He was familiar with both and had resisted each in the past. He could resist now.

“If you talked with Mathews, then you know that the murderer had consumed some poison, most likely from the datura plant. In a nonlethal dose, it makes a man superactive, fearless,
and
psychotic. In short, a man like that would be capable of any number of atrocities. So what, in particular, stinks to you?”

Sam repeated his concern that a man in that condition would be more likely found wandering the town, not lying in wait on the spacious grounds of the Muthaiga Club.

“Hmm. Interesting point, Featherstone, and one that, I confess, bothered me as well.” He picked up a china cup and wiped the rim with his pocket handkerchief. “Tea?”

“Coffee if you have it.”

“Right. Americans don’t drink much tea, I take it. Some holdover of that Boston Tea Party, I presume?” Finch stood and went to the door. “Tucker!” he called. “Coffee for Mr. Featherstone and tea for me.” He looked over his shoulder at Sam. “How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“Black!” Finch ordered as the constable took Finch’s cup and scrambled to find a second clean one. The inspector sat back at his desk. “The problem is that we don’t have identification on the native. If he’s a local chap, someone would have reported him missing from his job, I’d think.”

“Don’t you have all of the natives’ fingerprints on file?”

Finch snorted. “To be sure. Well, the Department for Native Affairs does. But . . . Oh, very good, Tucker. Just set it down on the desk.”

The constable put a cup of tea on Finch’s desk and handed a mug of coffee to Sam. He took a sip. It tasted as though the pot had perked and bubbled for several days.
Just like home.
“Are they checking the prints?” asked Sam.

“What? Oh, no. One of my men is. An Indian. But it may take weeks. I’m afraid that they haven’t cataloged the prints according to any proper indexing.”

“Can’t you tell something about his tribe? Was he Kikuyu or Maasai?”

“He wasn’t Maasai, I can tell you that. Very distinctive hair ornamentation there. Not Wakamba either. They generally file their teeth to make them pointy. Beyond that, I have very little to go on.”

“Dr. Mathews suggested that his, er, loin wrap didn’t look like something most of the local tribes wear.”

Finch sipped his tea. “Quite true. Had more of a coastal look about it, if I had to guess. We have our share of Somali come down from the north. Or could be a Swahili up from Dar es Salaam.” He took another sip and replaced the china cup on the saucer. “But I fail to see how this has any import to you. The man killed himself.”

Sam took a second swallow of coffee, decided that it wasn’t worth a third, and placed the mug on the edge of Finch’s desk. “I can’t see the man having a motive,” said Sam. “And don’t tell me he didn’t need one because he was drugged. Why take the drug? Was he trying to get his courage up? If so, why?”

“Now it sounds as though you
are
suggesting something, Featherstone.”

“I keep thinking everything seemed too staged, too convenient. I wonder if someone gave this native a drugged drink, and set him up to attack Wheeler?”

“Premeditated murder, then.”

“Yes,” said Sam. “In which case, the murderer is still on the loose. And chances are, he’s up on Kilimanjaro.”

Finch stood, indicating that the interview was over. “Mr. Featherstone, having met Miss del Cameron, I can understand your, er, attachment to her and, consequently, your desire to protect her. But let me assure you that you’re starting at shadows. There is absolutely nothing to suggest that this man was induced to kill Mr. Wheeler.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Finch held up his hand to wait. “We will continue to try to identify this man. Beyond that, I can’t do much more. However, rest assured that I’ll contact you the moment I know anything.”

Sam stood and nodded to Finch. “Thank you for your time,” he said. As he left the office, he wondered what steps to take next. The police weren’t much help, so it was obviously up to him to find the connection between the murderer and whoever had set him in motion.

CHAPTER 9

—The Traveler

IT TOOK THREE HOURS TO GET UNDER WAY THE NEXT MORNING. First, half the group needed to be roused out of bed. Then they all decided they needed to bring something else with them, a Kodak Brownie camera, a different wrap, something to barter for trinkets.

Bargaining with the Chagga women for woven baskets and clay-beaded necklaces had become something of a sport around camp. Zakayo, their interpreter, assisted more often than not, although Cynthia, Murdock, and Julian had all picked up some Swahili. For some reason, the actors got the idea that this “wilder village” up the hill would have more notable items to keep as souvenirs. Jade could have told them that most of the women who came into camp to sell their fruit and other wares either came from that very village or another one just like it.

Jade brought up the rear, occasionally assisting a straggler. The entire complement of actors and cameramen made the trip, along with cameras, film, camp chairs, and a hamper of food. In the end, they left the metal chest behind and took only the drinking goblet and the snake bracelet, which Jade carried in her day pack. Only Nakuru remained at the camp with Muturi to guard it. Jelani walked Biscuit, and Lwiza followed the actresses.