Adventures (5 page)

“Well, well, what have we here?” he said with a smile. “I really should get a photograph of this, and title it
Thieves’ Carnival
.” He turned to me. “You wouldn't happen to be Lucifer Jones, would you?”

“The Right Reverend Doctor Jones,” I replied.

“I thought as much,” he said. “I am Captain Peter Clarke, at your service, sir—and the biggest service I can offer you is to urge you not to enter into any transactions with your current companions.”

“What makes you think I was considering such a thing, Brother Clarke?” I asked.

“When you're out in the bush and you see vultures circling in the sky, what makes you think there's a carcass on the ground?” he replied with a smile. “I assure you, Doctor Jones, that the mere presence of these three swindlers is ample proof to anyone who knows them that you are in possession of a tidy piece of change. I can only urge you to hang on to it for dear life.”

“I did not come here to have my character impugned,” said the Major.

“I can do more than impugn it,” laughed Captain Clarke. “I can document it. Major Theodore Dobbins, age forty-six, dishonorably discharged for embezzlement, served three terms for fraud in England, one for robbery in Australia. Currently on probation from Johannesburg. Wanted in Ethiopia, Morocco, and Egypt for drug dealing.”

He turned to the Dutchman. “And this one's another treasure: Caesare Tobur, alias Winston Riles, alias Hans Gerber, alias Horst Brokow, alias the Dutchman. Wanted in seven countries for slave trading and in three more for the illegal sale of firearms.”

“Then why haven't you arrested them?” I asked, more out of politeness than a fervent desire to see any potential meal tickets locked away.

“Inefficient extradition laws,” said Captain Clarke. “Tanganyika was a German protectorate until a few years ago. It still takes an enormous amount of paperwork to get things done here. Besides, we don't know which ship is carrying the opium, but we do know that someone is going to have to make a move in the next day or so. I hope you'll forgive my frankness, Doctor Jones, but I'd hate to see you get mixed up with these characters. And that little weasel sitting at the next table is the worst of the lot.”

“I beg your pardon!” said the Rodent, rising to his feet.

“Worst butcher in all of British East,” said Captain Clarke. “He's killed something like thirty-five men.”

“That's a lie!” screamed the Rodent. He turned to me. “I put it to you, my dear friend. I have killed only sixteen men, all in self-defense. I have never been convicted of murder. There are no warrants for my arrest anywhere in Africa. And yet this ... this
fou
tries to make me sound like a mad-dog killer. Me, Le Rongeur, who wouldn't harm a fly unless provoked!” He sneered at Clarke. “Thirty-five men indeed!”

“Well, what do you say, Doctor Jones?” said Captain Clarke. “Would you care to have me escort you back to your hotel, or possibly put you into protective custody until the deadline for the deal has passed?”

“I thank you for your concern, Brother Clarke,” I said, “but surrounded as I am by the scum of the earth, what better place could I find to do the Lord's bidding? Why don't you check back in on me in a couple of hours?”

“If you're still alive,” said Clarke grimly.

“I'll have ’em singing hosannahs in half that time,” I said with a confident smile.

“Well, I can't
force
you to use your brain,” said Captain Clarke with a shrug. He turned and left the room.

“I hope you will accept what he said with a grain of salt,” said the Major.

“Obviously misinformed,” said the Dutchman.

“I wonder who killed the other nineteen men?” mused the Rodent.

A waiter approached us just then, and we all ordered impala, except the Rodent, who insisted on having fish. The waiter, after some argument, finally agreed, provided that the Rodent wouldn't object if his fish looked and tasted like impala. The little man finally nodded, the waiter left, and I was alone with my confederates once again.

“As I was saying,” began the Major, “you must by now realize what kind of social untouchables have joined us in our repast. We have a demented dwarf who can't remember how many men he's killed, and a slave trader called the Dutchman who's probably never been within two hundred miles of Holland.”

“Hah!” snapped the Dutchman. “I grew up in Rakovnik!”

“Which happens to be in Czechoslovakia,” said the Rodent softly from the next table.

“Amsterdam!” amended the Dutchman quickly. “I grew up in Amsterdam. It's been such a long time that I get confused.”

“And what about yourself, Major?” I asked. “Did you really serve time in all those prisons?”

“A series of unfortunate misunderstandings,” he said smoothly. “But let us come back to the point, sir. I have made you a very generous proposition. Are we to be partners?”

“And I have made him an even better one!” said the Dutchman.

“At any rate,” said the Major. “I feel certain that we may at least eliminate Le Rongeur from consideration. You cannot possibly entertain the notion of entering into an agreement with such a man.”

As the Major finished speaking, the Rodent made a sudden move with his right hand, and I found myself alone at the table, both my companions having dropped to the floor with a swiftness born of terror. The Rodent merely smiled, picked his napkin from his lap, and dabbed himself about the lips.

“That was a thoroughly uncivil thing to do,” complained the Major, getting back onto his chair.

“You would prefer that I let my wine trickle down my chin?” asked the Rodent gently.

“We would prefer that you not make any sudden movements in the direction of your belt,” said the Dutchman, huffing and puffing as he regained his feet.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” said the Rodent. “Next time I feel the need to reach for anything below the line of your vision, I shall first announce what I am reaching for.”

The Major nodded vigorously. “It's only good manners.”

“I must add,” said the Rodent, “that if you make any further attempt to convince my good friend Doctor Jones that I am unable to fulfill my word as an independent businessman, the next thing I reach for will not be my napkin. I wish you no ill will, but...” He let the sentence die with an apologetic little smile.

“Back to business,” said the Dutchman. “Doctor Jones, I am prepared to offer you double anything the Major offers.”

“Rubbish!” said the Major. “I'll match whatever that gross peddler of human flesh offers. We Englishmen must stick together.”

“And you, Rongeur?” I asked, turning to the little man. “What do you have to say?”

“My offer is unchanged since this morning,” said the Rodent. “But there is one thing I must add to it.”

“Please do so,” I said.

“I am willing to guarantee that none of my rivals will take, shall we say, unsavory means to show you his displeasure at not becoming your partner. I do not think they can make the same guarantee.”

I must confess that it was a contract stipulation that hadn't occurred to me, and the more I thought about it, the better the Rodent's offer began to look. Founding the Tabernacle of Saint Luke was all well and good, but not if the founder was to be buried beneath a cornerstone. I suppose I wasn't upholding my poker face very well, because the Major laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“My dear Doctor Jones,” he said, “I assure you that my principals will not allow any harm to come to you, if that's all that is worrying you.”

“I make you the same guarantee,” said the Dutchman, “with the further stipulation that should my guarantee not, for some unforeseen reason, be fulfilled, you will be brutally and thoroughly avenged.”

“Brother Dutchman,” I said, “as much as I appreciate the sentiments behind your statement, I find it a mighty small comfort. Let us leave such dismal considerations aside for the moment and start talking cold hard cash.”

“Excellent,” said the Dutchman. “You know my terms. I will give you a thousand percent return within ten days.”

“How will I find you ten days from now?” I asked.

“You might ask the local constabulary,” said the Major nastily. “He spends more time in jail than out of it.”

“You are hardly the one to make such a statement!” said the Dutchman haughtily.

“Brethren,” I said, “I repeat: My prime concern is making sure that I have some way of collecting all these wondrous profits that are being spoken of. I couldn't love and trust you more if you were my own flesh and blood—but then, my own flesh-and-blood brother is currently serving time in Arizona for trying to rob a restaurant. Therefore, I feel that I need more than verbal assurances, no matter how comforting they may be.” (Actually, my brother was in jail in Montana for doing vile things with a painted woman and her twelve-year-old twin daughters, but I saw no reason to bring his sordid misdeeds to light just to prove a point.)

“I appreciate your concern, my dear sir,” said the Major, “but you must understand that time is of the essence. If the money is not presented by noon tomorrow, the boat will leave for Madagascar, where the goods will be offered to Erich Van Horst.”

“And who is this Von Horst?” I asked.

“A black-hearted scoundrel,” said the Dutchman. “A totally unprincipled swine.”

“But smart,” interposed the Rodent.

“Yes, smart,” said the Dutchman. “No one even knows what he looks like, or if Von Horst is his real name. But he has made enormous inroads on this segment of our business.”

“In other words,” I said, “he is a competitor.”

“An understatement,” said the Major. “The man is a monopolist. Far from being a competitor, he tries to beat down competition at every opportunity. In short, he is an enemy of the free-enterprise system.”

“Well, brothers,” I said, “I certainly agree that we can't allow a man like that to blacken his soul still further. He sounds like he's pretty nearly past redemption right now, and I've certainly got no intention of helping old Satan get his infernal claws on another brother through any action of mine. No, indeed, we certainly can't be the cause of poor Brother Von Horst's downfall.”

“Excellent, my dear Doctor Jones,” said the Major. “We shall at least, so to speak, keep it within the family. Now, with whom do you choose to associate yourself?”

“Brothers,” I said, “I know I said I would announce my decision at dinner tonight, but certain factors have been brought to light by our frank discussion. If each of you will meet me for breakfast at my hotel tomorrow morning and tell me how you intend to protect both my investment and my health, I will choose one of you in ample time for you to purchase your goods before noon.” I paused to borrow a swig of the Major's liquor. “You understand that it's not myself I'm concerned about. But to rob me is to rob the Lord of His tabernacle, and that is just too sinful to contemplate.”

Well, none of them looked too happy about it, but I guess they all saw the wisdom of my position, for they finally agreed, though the Rodent kept playing with his napkin and shooting regretful but meaningful glances at the Major and the Dutchman.

We kept drinking and talking about one thing and another for an hour or so, and then Captain Peter Clarke came back in. I hadn't wanted to offend any of my friends, but the truth of the matter is that I had been waiting for him, just to make sure I got back to the hotel safe and sound, so bidding them all adieu until morning, I began walking back to my hotel in his company.

“How'd you make out with that pack of thieves?” said Captain Clarke. “Still got your wallet?”

“So far so good, Brother Clarke,” I said. “But there is something I've been meaning to discuss with you.” I turned quickly and saw three different but distinctive figures darting in and out amongst the shadows.

“And what might that be, Doctor Jones?” asked Captain Clarke.

“I have a certain amount of cash on hand,” I said.

“I know,” said Captain Clarke.

“And being a God-fearing and moral man, I would never harm my fellow man, so I carry no weapons. Now, you made a statement earlier this evening about protective custody...”

“True,” he said. “But the situation has changed in the past hour. Our prison has only four cells, and thanks to a drunken brawl at the waterfront, I regret to inform you that all four of our accommodations are currently occupied.”

“I wasn't referring to myself, Brother Clarke,” I said quickly. “As a man of the cloth, I have naturally never spent so much as a minute in a jail cell, and I think such an experience would be spiritually shattering.”

“Then what did you have in mind, Doctor Jones?” he said.

“I have a certain amount of cash on hand,” I began.

“So you said.”

“I wonder if I might put it in protective custody until, shall we say, ten o'clock tomorrow morning?”

“Well, it's highly irregular...” he said.

“I'd rest much easier knowing it's free from attack by vicious night-prowling bandits and other foul denizens of the city,” I said.

“You'd pick it up no later than ten o'clock?” said Captain Clarke.

“My word as a man of God,” I said, raising my right hand and shooting a glance up toward Heaven.

“And you're willing to trust me?”

“You're a sworn defender of the law, ain't you?” I said.

“All right, Doctor Jones,” he said. “If this is truly your desire, I suppose the city of Dar-es-Salaam can keep your money in custody overnight. Where is it?”

“I'll lead you to it,” I said, “just as soon as we manage to elude my dinner companions.”

“Oh, so you noticed them too?” he said with a smile. “It shouldn't be too difficult to get rid of them.”

We speeded up our pace and began turning this way and that, and within half an hour even the Rodent must have been wondering where we had gone to. Then we doubled back to Maurice's, where we crept around to the back of the building and I removed my money from beneath a large concrete block where I had hidden it the night before.

Captain Clarke counted it briskly, then put it in his pocket and withdrew a pencil and a small notebook.

“Let me give you a receipt for it,” he said, and scrawled laboriously that the Police Department of the city of Dar-es-Salaam owed the Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones the sum of two thousand and forty British pounds, payable upon presentation of this note.