Bluebolt One (9 page)

“Did you read it?”

She said hesitantly, “Well, I couldn’t help it really. It was something about a meeting being cancelled—I didn’t pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he came back just then, and when he saw what I had in my hand, well, his reactions absolutely amazed me. He went a sort of grey colour and he began to shake all over as if he was ill. I thought for a moment he really was ill, then I realized he was just—scared. Very scared.” There was still that far-away look. “He snatched the note and stuffed it in his pocket, and just stood there staring at me, with his eyes all kind of—of wide and starey. I tell you, he was absolutely terrified.    He started     talking wildly, said Sam was very powerful and he could see all that went on, everywhere, and he’d be very angry with him for leaving the note lying about.”

She stopped, and Shaw noticed that she was twisting a handkerchief into a knot in her lap. He asked gently, “What did you think about all that at the time?”

“Quite honestly, I thought he was mad.”

Shaw nodded. “Did you ever see anything else funny at any time?”

“No, not really___I did find some little things on his table once, funny things like little carved men, sort of all dried up. He said something about them being given him by a witchdoctor back in Africa when he was a little boy. I remember asking him about things like that, if he believed in black magic and all that, but he wouldn’t talk about it at all.”

Shaw felt a sudden thrill, and once again his mind seemed to fill with the darkness that was MacNamara’s unhappy land. He asked, “Did he ever say anything about this Sam Wiley beyond what you’ve told me? Think carefully, Miss Ross: Did he ever tell you anything that might help us now?”

She frowned in concentration. “No-o. . . I really don’t remember anything, and I’m sure I would have done.”

“Do you know where they met—was there anything in the note you found?”

She said, “No, there wasn’t. Pat was always out on a Thursday, though, even when he wasn’t on a night turn. He may have gone to meetings, I don’t know.” She added, “I do know he used to go to a sort of club most Thursdays, a place in Camden Town called the Ship’s Biscuit. It’s in Corner Crescent. . . I think it’s a kind of drinking club. They may have used it as a rendezvous, I suppose?”

“Have you any idea what went on there?”

“Pat told me there was a strip-tease—it’s that sort of place. I was rather surprised, really.” She looked across at him, finished the gin, and set the glass down rather hard on a small table. “And that’s all I know. Honestly.”

“Yes, I see.” He frowned in some perplexity. “Miss Ross, I don’t want to be prying or indelicate or anything like that, but wasn’t it a little odd for you to go on seeing him after you found out that he might be mixed up in something you thought yourself was peculiar?”

She shrugged, swung the tartan trews over the arm of her chair. The unburdening process seemed to have done her good to the extent of bringing back a hardness, a self-contained compactness, into her face and attitude. She said distantly, “Oh, I suppose it was very odd. I don’t kid myself over that. White girls, nice ones, just don’t go around with—niggers, do they?” There was something off-beat, something challenging and yet hopeless, in her tone, something vaguely masochistic and yet at the same time almost frightening. “Only it so happens I didn’t think of him as a nigger—even after I’d found out what I told you. I thought of him as a Negro, yes. What’s wrong with that?”

Shaw said, and meant it, “In itself, nothing. I’ve known plenty of coloured men who’re more worthy of respect than many whites. I was referring to what he was mixed up in.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know you were really. You don’t look the kind of man who’d be prejudiced. But mixed up in . . . I think he’d been forced into something against his will, almost. As you said—a dupe. There wasn’t anything vicious in him at all. If he’d been allowed to lead his own life by both blacks
and
whites he’d have been entirely different. He was a disappointed man, Commander Shaw, and he’d got bitter. I don’t know what it was he’d been made to join, but I don’t think you can blame him, whatever it was.” She was speaking with a passionate sincerity, eyes bright. “And you see there were very good reasons why I stuck to him.”

Shaw said diffidently, “Forgive me. I know you spoke of this before. But you’re definite you’re not—”

“Expecting his baby?” She gave a high, nervy laugh and her face tightened. “Oh, God, no. I told you the whole truth. I’m not as stupid as that.” She swung her legs down and stood up, tall, almost statuesque in a pale afternoon sun shining through the attic window. “The reasons I meant were simply that he was literally the only friend I had. . . and perhaps I
am
in love with him, I don’t know. So get him back—will you?”

He said, “I’ll do all I can. You have my promise. There’s just one other thing,” he added casually. “Had MacNamara got anything branded on to his right arm?”

She said, “Yes, as a matter of fact he had. A spider. He said it was some sort of tribal mark, to do with an initiation ceremony which they’d carried out when he wasn’t much more than a baby.”

“Thank you. That’s all, then, Miss Ross. Take a tip from me, though.” He wagged a finger at her, solemnly. “Don’t leave this flat on any account whatever for the time being. Don’t admit any visitors unless they produce evidence to Mrs Tait that they’re either policemen or some one from my department. Don’t even answer the doorbell yourself. I’ll spin Mrs Tait a yam on the way out, and I’ll also see what she can do about your essential shopping. As far as Helene’s is concerned, you’re still under the weather. Clear?”

“I suppose so. But what’s the idea?”

“Just routine precautions. But see you do as I tell you. If you want me at any time, ring this number.” Shaw tore a sheet of paper from a notebook and scribbled the number of the outside line to his flat. He added an Admiralty number and said, “If I’m not there and it’s urgent, ring this other one and ask for Captain Carberry. If you do all I say you won’t have to worry.”

Walking away down Oakley Street for the King’s Head and a snack lunch, Shaw and Debonnair exchanged wondering glances. Debbie said, “My God, Esmonde, what a popsie—and what a crazy, mixed-up kid, poor girl! Good background, I think, but she certainly does lead her own life—and how!”

“Yes... funny how they can change, isn’t it? But—try putting yourself in her place.”

“Oh, I know! Sorry if I sounded catty. You can’t lead other people’s lives for them, and that’s a fact, though there’s plenty of busybodies trying to.” She wrinkled her nose attractively. “Let me know in good time if ever you see me starting to become an old cow, Esmonde.” They walked on in companionable silence for a few yards, then she said, “Esmonde, you looked as if you’d sat on a pin when she first mentioned Sam Wiley. Do you know the gentleman?”

“Not personally—yet. But I’ve a nodding acquaintance with another gent by the name of Esamba.”

“Who?”

“Esamba, Deb. I’ve read about him. This morning. It’s just my turn of mind, I suppose. Esamba’s one of the Dark Gods—he’s the One Who Blows Out The Light Behind Men’s Eyes.”

She stared at him. “You mean kills them?”

“Not necessarily, I gather. Sends them blind first, anyway.”

“Oh,
Esmonde!
” She gave one of her deep, gurgling chuckles. “This is Oakley Street, S.W.3, and there’s a London Transport bus, and there’s a bobby by the traffic lights—see? This is dear old London—wake up! You don’t really believe all that voodoo nonsense, do you?”

“I don’t know,” he said echoing Jiddle. “I honestly don’t know. There are so many things we don’t know, can’t know, for all our scientific progress—and so much I can’t tell you anyway, my dear. But I assure you I haven’t suddenly gone off my head.”

She said comfortably, taking his arm as they crossed the road, “Well, that’s nice to know, anyway. By the way, what are we going to do after we’ve eaten?”

“I’ve got a phone call to make to Carberry, put him in the picture in case that girl rings him or the Old Man starts asking him questions.”

“Anything else?”

She was looking up into his face and smiling, but there was a hint of anxiety behind that smile. He asked, “For Carberry? Yes, there is. I want a membership card as soon as possible for the Ship’s Biscuit club in Camden Town.”

“Mean you’re going there?”

“I am—and to-night at that. Remember, it’s Thursday today. But before I go, we’ll dine somewhere, you and I, Deb.”

“Two meals out in one day? Sounds as though you don’t expect to have the chance again for some time, doesn’t it?” He grinned and squeezed her arm, but he didn’t say any more.

That same afternoon word had reached the Bluebolt control-station in Nogolia’s Naka Valley that the bodies of two white men had been found, horribly mutilated, on the Jinda-Manalati road not far from the tribal village of Zambi. In the north of Nogolia a white woman, wife of an executive of the Nogolia Copper Mining Corporation, had been raped by six Africans and then butchered. Her husband had almost stumbled on the body himself when he arrived home and had gone practically out of his mind when he realized what had happened. Reprisals had been made by a group of angry white copper workers, who had gone out in force and beaten up crowds of (probably innocent) Africans, one of whom had since died. This had led to counter-reprisals and a general riot in which a number of Africans and Europeans had been killed and several policemen seriously injured by stones, broken bottles, and sticks. The riot had been put down, but the situation was still on a knife-edge.

When Julian Hartog got this news he sat very still at his desk for nearly a minute, his eyes blazing oddly in his dark face. Then he got up, went over to a cupboard, and took down a half-empty bottle of whisky. He took two big gulps, neat from the bottle, and shut the cupboard again. Then, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he went over to the window and he stood there a long while, just looking out at the rain and the jungle and the grotesque antennae of the mast which rose above the control-room’s glass-domed roof. There was still a peculiar glitter in his eyes, and a vein throbbed tightly in his left temple. He was beginning to feel that he couldn’t take much more of this, that something must snap before long, that he must act even before those blackmailing bastards who were behind the current troubles were ready for him, act before things were taken out of his hands and the station was overwhelmed by the march of events . . . a moment later he began walking up and down, walking with those long, loping strides, wolf-like, lean and hungry and predatory.

That was how Stephen Geisler found him. Hartog stopped in his stride as Geisler came in. He asked, “I suppose you’ve heard, Steve?”

“The killings?” Geisler too was showing the strain now. “Sure.”

Hartog’s eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, glared at him. He said, “So that’s all you’ve got to say. Listen, Steve.” He went across to the Navy man, stood towering above him, shoulders hunched, hands rammed into the pockets of khaki slacks. He said, “One of these days, some one’s going to act for those that won’t act in time.” His eyes narrowed and he drew back his lips until they made two thin, bloodless lines, a curiously animal-like snarl. “You ever stopped to think just what we could do if we took things into our own hands—you and I, Steve?”

Geisler’s ruddy face paled a little, but he didn’t answer. Hartog went on harshly, “I told you the other day. I might find something out. If I do there’s going to be trouble, I can tell you.” He glowered down at Stephen Geisler. “I’ve been doing a little bit of . . . well, let’s call it homework, in my own time—”

Geisler cut in, his tone suddenly steely. “I don’t know what you mean, Julian, but I can make a guess, maybe. And I’ll tell you this: don’t go sticking your neck out. That’s not our job. Leave it to the politicians. This is a Navy outfit and we just obey orders.”

Hartog stared at him, his lips curling scornfully. Then he burst into a peal of laughter—bitter, mocking laughter. He said, “Ah, nuts, Steve. You just don’t know what you’re saying. It’s no good talking to you.” He went out of the door, slamming it hard behind him.

Breathing fast, he walked across the station compound, mouth working a little, and got into a parked Land Rover. He backed the vehicle out and drove down to the gates, halted, and nodded tight-lipped at the petty officer of the naval guard. The big steel-barred gates were swung open for him and he drove on through.

Driving viciously, he headed south-westward along the Jinda road. After some fifteen minutes he pulled the Land Rover off the roadway to the left and drove into the scrub. He stopped the engine, leaving the vehicle well hidden. Then he walked on into thick jungle, along an overgrown track.

After a while, forcing his way through, he came to some old mine workings which had been started some years before as an extension of a small tin-mine which had itself been abandoned when the seam had run out. Pulling aside the vegetation which concealed the entrance to a tunnel cut into the old working-face, Hartog edged into darkness. Once inside he switched a torch on and walked ahead down the long, danksmelling tunnel until he came to a widened section where a single-track, small-gauge railway began. Pulling down a red-painted power switch high up on the tunnel wall, he clambered on to a small electric trolley and moved a lever.

Slowly at first, and then with increasing momentum, the trolley took him along the old mine workings on well-greased rails, and some while later he saw the pinpoint of daylight ahead, where the tunnel ended in the main mine, the disused one which was not so very far from Zambi village.

Back in London that night, Debonnair sipped at a glass of old brandy, looked thoughtfully across the gleaming damask tablecloth towards Esmonde Shaw, who was pulling abstractedly at his black bow-tie and who was deep in some reverie of his own, as he’d been almost all the time since leaving Gillian Ross’s flat early that afternoon.

“More coffee, darling?”

“Um. . . ? Oh—thanks.” He pushed his cup across. “Sorry. I’ve been poor company, I know.” His hand touched against the brandy glass, jerked it, set the deep gold liquid moving. The shaded table-lamp, shining down through it, sent changing, shadowy patterns chasing each other across the snowy cloth, patterns which bubbled and coalesced and separated again. Like his own thoughts, he reflected moodily, getting nowhere, ethereal and vague and disturbing. In some ways he had made reasonably good progress, of course; he had established that Patrick MacNamara was an adherent of the Cult of Edo, and this Ship’s Biscuit dive alone might produce something valuable if it gave him any lead to MacNamara’s set. But beyond that—nothing. It was likely enough that this Sam Wiley—which was probably not his real name, anyhow—had something to do with MacNamara’s disappearance, perhaps, but apart from the vague possibilities which the club might offer later to-night, he had no idea whatever as to where to start looking for the man. He had no description of Wiley beyond the fact that he was an African, and Jiddle, his only good contact with that strange sub-world of rackets and race warfare, was stone-cold dead. . . .