The Leopard's Prey (15 page)

By this time, a small crowd, including two small boys and a Great Dane, had gathered to watch the antics. Sam waited patiently for the gawkers to get bored and leave, and bribed the two boys into going with four rupees each. Only the dog, which had settled itself in a shady spot and appeared to be staying for the duration, refused to go.

“Gentlemen, I want to film you doing just what you were doing when I arrived.”

“But we were merely discussing the fair,” said one man. “That and the latest
shauris
.”

“Exactly,” said Sam. “It is a perfect scene of gentlemen farmers at the fair.” He stepped forward from behind the camera and examined the items in the booth. His gaze quickly found what he wanted, the display of new maize knives. “I have an idea.” He motioned for the elderly man to stand just to the right of the display.

“You’re Lord Colridge, aren’t you, sir?”

Colridge nodded. “Who else would I be?”

“Then I know that I can count on you to lead the way.” Sam picked up a trowel and placed it in Colridge’s hands. “You, sir, will be examining this trowel.”

“Pish tosh! I’m not interested in a trowel,” protested Colridge. His mustache fluttered with an exasperated snort.

“If you would only
pretend
to be interested, sir.”

“You can act interested in a trowel, can’t you, Colridge?” asked one of his companions. “After all, you do an excellent job of
acting
interested whenever the commissioners try to talk you into something. That trowel is probably more animated than any of them.”

The other men chuckled at this joke, including Colridge. “All right, all right. I shall play the part and I daresay you won’t find a better actor anywhere short of the Theatre Royale.”

With the apparent ringleader settled, the rest of the men fell into Sam’s plan easily enough. “When I say, ‘Action,’ you gentlemen,” he said, indicating the other three men, “will come walking by and see your friend here examining this trowel. You will stop and shake hands and begin talking about the fair. I need you to look lively, but not exaggerated. That’s the hard part. It should look like a very interesting discussion without appearing staged.”

Sam snapped his fingers as though a great idea had just occurred to him. “I’ve got it. I heard where one of these gloves with the knife attached was found recently on a dead man. One of you will look up at the display and point to these knives and comment on how it figured into the recent tragedy. Then just continue talking about what you’ve heard.”

“Wait just a moment, lad,” said Colridge. “I daresay that will make for a lively discussion but I don’t know that I want it on record. Will anyone know what we are saying?”

“Oh, no,” said Sam. “Sound doesn’t record and I doubt anyone will be able to read lips.”

“Especially with that broom covering yours, Colridge,” said one of the other men.

“I do believe you are safe there, sir,” said Sam. “I will make up some words to appear on the screen. Probably something about a marauding lion in with your stock or something of that nature. The audience will love it.”

While the men got into position, Sam noticed the lad behind the counter kept clenching and unclenching his fist as though he burned to say something. “You’re important in this scene, too, young man,” said Sam, noticing the youth starting to sputter in irritation. “You’re the proprietor. Feel free to add whatever you like to their discussion.”

Then he went behind the camera, removed the lens cap, called, “Action!” and rolled film.

WITH NO PARTICULAR plan in mind, Jade decided to stroll and let fate or Biscuit make the decisions. She was an American, an outsider, and as such, her questions about Stokes might make some people defensive. The Nairobiites would feel the need to defend one of their own rather than open up about him.
How did that proverb go? Something about “even the fierce leopard does not devour its cubs.”

Instead, she intended to rely on her two best allies for bringing people to her: Biscuit and her Kodak. Having a tame cheetah made her more like one of the more eccentric locals, and taking pictures for an international magazine like the
Traveler
often brought even the most reticent and stuffy person around. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to be famous.

She wended her way past several Dutch-speaking Boers in heavy shirts, thick trousers, and broad hats. She took a photograph of them with the produce display in the background and walked on. Next Jade strolled by a cluster of young ladies busily eyeing the nearby gentlemen, then past the bachelor herd itself decked out in pale linen suits and boater hats, feverishly discussing the latest cricket matches.

She heard snippets of conversations from gloved ladies in airy flowered dresses discussing the upcoming return of Lady Northey and when they would host the next benefit for the children’s home. A Pomeranian on a leash, too foolish to realize it was edible, yapped at Biscuit, who ignored it with the disdain of one with better taste than for small dogs. Petite Cherie’s mistress pulled back on the leash, glaring at Jade. Jade smiled back, assuring the ladies that Biscuit was no threat. The women eyed Jade’s jodhpurs and boots and gave her a cutting look.

Ahead lay the store booths. Jade heard a strong male voice proclaiming the merits of a new coffee pulper.

“There’s no dead body in it, is there?” quipped one of the male onlookers. “I won’t pay extra for coffee equipment just because it holds a dead body.”

The others laughed at this macabre joke, and Jade moved closer to listen.

“That’s only a problem at the Berryhill store,” said the proprietor. “We don’t carry those maize knives, and you can’t get the corpse without first having one of those.”

Jade shuddered at the callous remarks. Then she recognized one of the chuckling onlookers as Mr. Holly, a banker that she’d once met at the Muthaiga Club. If memory served, he’d been roaring drunk at a party in her honor and made a pass while they danced. She hoped he didn’t remember the punch to the eye she had given him.

“One would get the impression that Mr. Stokes was not well liked,” she said.

Holly turned and, recognizing her, smiled broadly and tipped his hat. “Miss del Cameron, how pleasant to see you.” He ogled her figure. “Still as lovely as ever, if I may say so.” Biscuit brushed against his legs, and he started momentarily. “Oh, and you have a cat.”

“His name is Biscuit,” she said.

“Hascombe’s cheetah?” Holly asked.

“Not any longer,” Jade said. “He handed him off to me when he took up safari work for good. But, Mr. Holly, you were saying something about Mr. Stokes.” She knew he wasn’t, but it didn’t hurt to prompt him.

“Call me Stuart. I actually always found Stokes a very likable chap. A good man on the football field, too. But there are others who weren’t so keen on him.”

“Oh?”

He stepped closer and leaned over to pass his confidences to her alone. Jade suspected from his greeting that he had other reasons for getting nearer.
Good thing Sam’s not here.

“Mind you, I’m not certain of any facts,” Holly said, “but I heard that he was positively monstrous to his wife. Never letting her go out without him, never letting her join any of the ladies’ clubs.”

“I heard she disappeared,” said Jade. “Do you think she’ll return now that he’s gone?”

“Yes, presuming that she will have a way of knowing he’s dead—a friend perhaps, or the paper. More to the point, presuming
she’s
still alive.”

“Still alive? You think he killed her?”

He shrugged. “I heard gossip that there was a child.”

“A child?” asked Jade. “How old? Where is it now?”

Holly raised one eyebrow. “Where indeed? I got the story from a friend who heard it from a doctor’s assistant. Delivered at home three, maybe four months ago. Boy, I believe. I have no idea where it is. Just so long as I don’t have it.”

Clearly, Holly wanted to impress her with his inside knowledge. Since Jade already knew all this, she decided to fish for more. “Well, he must have felt terrible remorse to commit suicide in that manner.”

“You think he killed himself?” He chuckled and nudged her with his elbow. “My dear young lady, you have it all wrong. I have it on good authority that he was murdered.”

Jade put her hand to her open mouth and opened her eyes as wide as she could. “Murdered? So he
didn’t
slit his own wrist with one of those horrid glove knives?”

Holly took her by the elbow and escorted her to a shady spot closer to the back side of the booth. “I heard from a
very
reliable source, a ‘hello girl’ to be precise, that Martin Stokes was already dead when his wrist was cut. Apparently there would be a lot more blood, and it wouldn’t have come from a bird at any rate because that was what was in the dryer drum.”

Jade didn’t reply, hoping Holly would “up the ante” and add the next layer of information. He did.

“What was most intriguing was the report that he had
arsenic
in his lungs.”

Jade gasped. “He was poisoned?”

“No. He drowned in it. Cattle or sheep dip, or something like that.”

Jade thought about all the arsenic-based dip in use in the colony, employed to kill a variety of skin parasites. Stokes could have been killed at any number of locations.

“Drowned in cattle dip! Are you sure?”

Holly put his right hand over his heart. “I swear on my dear old grandmother’s grave. And I certainly hope the police nab the culprit,” he added with a solemn bow. “The team’s out a perfectly good midfielder.”

Jade felt a wave of disgust at the man’s shallow acknowledgment of Stokes’ worth. Since Holly didn’t appear to have any more information, she decided she’d had as much of his company as she could stomach for another year. She tugged on Biscuit’s lead. The cheetah chirped and wound around her legs.

“It looks as if Biscuit wants to keep moving,” Jade said. “It was very interesting talking with you, but I must be going.”

“You are attending the ball at the New Stanley tonight, aren’t you?” Holly asked. “I don’t believe we ever got to finish our last dance at the Muthaiga last year.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. “I can’t recall why, either.”

“I think you weren’t feeling well that evening,” Jade said. “Some of your friends took you outside for fresh air.” In reality, they’d laughingly tossed him into one of the cars to sleep it off after Jade punched him. But, she thought, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Sam might, though, if this man tried anything again this time. “I am attending, but I already have an escort.”

Holly didn’t appear to take the hint. “But you’ll save some dances for me, won’t you?”

It would have been a waste of breath to reply. Instead Jade gave Biscuit his head and walked off with a “Goodbye, Mr. Holly” tossed over her shoulder. As she left, she wondered what she’d really learned that might be of any use. Drowning in a tank of mange dip narrowed the scene of death from just plain drowning, but it was still too broad an area. There were so many containers of dip that the health department had recently raised concern about arsenic spilling into the soil and into streams and causing human liver damage.

And just because Stokes was found in the coffee dryer didn’t mean he was killed near it. That was when Jade realized that she didn’t actually know where the dryer had been placed. She’d assumed that since Neville had bought it from Stokes and Berryhill, it had been somewhere near the store. But it was a big piece of equipment, and not something anyone wanted to haul around. Perhaps it had been in a rail yard. She’d have to ask Neville.

Did Finch ask him that?
Jade remembered that she still hadn’t read Maddy’s or Neville’s accounts of their interrogations. She also needed to find out what Perkins and Daley had planned for Monday’s work. She decided to find them next.

CHAPTER 8

Celebrations among the Maasai are marked with feasting, singing,
and dancing, much like in any other culture. But more impressive are
the male competition dances where warriors leap into the air,
each going higher than the other, shoulders trembling at the peak.

—The Traveler

SAM CRANKED THE camera, actually rolling film. Not that he could use any of it as proof, but it did make for good action. His ears were tuned to the conversation, which had started out stilted but soon took on a more genuine note.

“So Stokes was killed with one of these knives?” asked one man.

“That’s what I heard. Cut his own wrist.”

“We’ll miss him on the cricket field.”

“And the football field.”

“I won’t miss him,” shouted Harley Berryhill. “Good riddance to him.” All heads turned to stare at the youth. “I know at least one person better off now that the leech is dead. A man’s affairs are his own.”

“See here, young man,” said Colridge. “What do you mean by that?” He turned to Sam and held up his hand. “I believe you should desist cranking that machine you have there.”

Sam stopped and listened. Harley’s face reddened as the men turned to him.

“Well, out with it, boy!” commanded Colridge.