EBOLOWA 11

11

 

 

“Sir!  Just a minute, Mr Kaplan, please - - “

Harry turned round.  Jean, the receptionist from last night, was coming out of the side office holding an envelope.  “This just came from the US Consulate for you by special delivery.”

“Thanks.”

“And I found you a car.”  He had a key in the palm of his hand.  “Nothing special.  A green deux cheveaux, just outside, I’ll show you.  M Ricard is going home and is happy to sell it cheap, two hundred dollars.  Says test it out and he’ll be in the bar later tonight if you want to do business.”

“Thanks,” Harry said nodding.  It was good timing: with the client on her way he needed to check out Stokes pronto.  “I’ll give it a run to Tiko.”

“Perfect.  Half an hour, max.”  The man was smiling, pleased to see him Harry in a better mood.  “You want me to show you?”

“No I’m fine.” He turned away to the door.  “Thanks.”

Outside he stopped and tore open the envelope.  It was a telex from Brad, and bad news, or at least stuff he didn’t want to hear: “Harry,” it said, “it turns out that Eileen O’Connell’s dead American wasn’t Annie Fayol but Elizabeth Palmer, raped and strangled February 1954 over a year before Annie got there.  I’ll let you know if anything else crops up chez Cameroon.  Good luck.  Brad.” 

Damn - - he almost crumpled it in his hand but resisted the urge and folded it into his pocket with a grimace: he’d got used to the idea of a CIA cover-up and now he was back to square one with only four days to sort it out.  Just went to show how you could never count on what seemed most likely - - there had obviously been more American women in Cameroon, and presumably elsewhere in Africa, than any of them had imagined.  Even he had been lulled into thinking she had to be Annie Fayol and that bugged him more than news itself.  He was a pro and should’ve known better. 

Action came to his rescue.  There was nothing like it to beat the blues or shift his mood.  The car started on first shot and took off pretty well.  Getting through the city’s crazy traffic took all his concentration, but as soon as he crossed the river the city faded away and the road got rougher. 

Tiko was the first place on the other side, the old British mandate of West Cameroon, and he found the Country Club easily enough. Just as Uttley said, it was set back off the road, a long ramshackle single-storey building with a surrounding wooden porch made from bamboo and a rusty tin roof of flattened kerosene cans.  The gateposts were absurd, massive concrete posts supporting imperial lions that had seen better days.  One had lost its head. 

The remains of a union jack was flying from a flagpole at nowhere in particular and at the back there were trees full of chattering birds with long drooping tails.  He cut the engine and got out with an appreciative glance at the car - - it didn’t have air con, but otherwise it was doing fine.  The sun beat down on his back and he pulled his shirt away from his body.  The air clung to his skin like damp cobwebs.

     “Good afternoon Sir,” said a tall African emerging from the shadows on the porch.  He wore a spotless long white tunic and a scarlet wrap-around cummerbund that matched the fez on his head.  “Welcome to the Tiko Country Club.”

     “Thank you,” he said and took the rickety steps two at a time.  “Glad to be here.”

     Inside the ceiling was low and a fan rotated slowly.  A bar ran from one end of the room to the other and double doors gave onto what looked like a restaurant with a chaise longue backed up against one side.  Nobody was about and the only sign of life came from a large fly buzzing angrily behind the Venetian blinds.  The man in the fez had moved soundlessly inside and was standing behind the bar.

     “We have bottled Trente Trois, sir, French, and Guinness on tap.”

     Harry went for the bottle - - the cool light lager he’d had the night before in a bar in the docks watching a woman in a diamante G-string wriggle out of a coiled snake.  Harry didn’t like snakes and he’d seen enough floorshows in Saigon.  He sat down under the fan and undid another button on his shirt.  His drink was quick in coming and the glass was perfectly chilled in his hand.  He took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin.  The place deserved to be busier.

     “You always this quiet?” he asked.

     “Gets better later, but business went down after the British left.”

     “Yeah, too bloody right it did!” rasped a voice from the restaurant. 

Harry looked round.  A gaunt head was sticking out from the chaise longue.  The eyes were bloodshot and deep in their sockets and the skin was drawn tight across the skull like parchment.  His forehead glistened with sweat.

“What’s it to you Yankee?” the skeleton demanded staggering onto its feet.  “Bastards - - ”

     “You Frank Stokes?” asked Harry. 

     “Who wants to know?”

The old drunk was holding a handkerchief in one hand and his crotch in the other as if he needed to relieve himself.  He wore a stained shirt and long shapeless khaki shorts.  His arms and legs were spindle thin and he was white enough to pass as a ghost.

     “Harry Kaplan,” Harry said, turning right round.  It was as close as he wanted to get.  “Ronald Uttley told me I’d find you here.  He sends his best wishes.”

     “You know Ronnie?”

     “I stopped off to see him on the way over.”

     “How is ruddy Ronnie?  Still tied to his mother’s apron strings?”

     “Seems to be.”  The Englishman had mentioned looking after his mother.  “Can’t get away like he used to.”

     “Yeah well, he never got far enough to wet his willy I can tell you.“  Stokes cleared his throat with a nasty rattle.  “Swear to God, Ronnie Uttley will be a virgin to the day they carry him out.”

     “That’s not the way he talks.”

     “Phwaw - - you shouldn’t take his word for it!”

     “He was telling me about an old flame he had out here called Annie Fayol.”

     “That Yankee tart!  Fanny Fayol more like.  Bitch used to drive him up the wall.”  The old drunk broke off into a storm of coughing and collapsed onto the chaise longue.  “The stupid prat proposed to her on his bloody knees with a bunch of red roses that cost a fortune.  I told him she was running around like a bitch on heat with half the Frenchies in Douala but he wouldn’t listen.”  He snorted and wagged his finger, “you Yanks have got a word for women like her - - prick teaser, and that stupid berk Ronnie fell for it.”

     “I heard she got it on with a guy called Nkumbé.”

     Stokes stared at him, his eyes foggy.  “Who?”

     “Didier Nkumbé.”

     “She got it on all right, but it wasn’t with him.”  He rubbed his forehead and looked off to one side.  He looked confused, staring into the distance.  “Where d’you get that idea?”  His expression slowly cleared and he gave Harry a toothless grin.  “You know what they say about knickers don’t you?  One good Yank and they’re off.” 

     His hoot of laughter knocked him off balance and he sat down heavily before choking and retching into a bucket at his feet.  His shoulders shook and he spat and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.  He slumped back panting, sweat glistening on his brow.

     “Here Mr Frank - - drink this.”  The barman supported him with one hand and held a glass of water in front of him.

     “Bollocks, get off - - ” Stokes knocked it over.  “I haven’t lost my marbles yet.”

     The barman avoided Harry’s eye and went back to the bar.  Stokes was leaning forwards again, his body heaving.  Something splattered into the bucket.  The air reeked of piss and body odour.  

     Harry recoiled, “Jesus - - ”

     “Fucking Jesus got nothing to do with it, or any black bastard either.  Fanny Fayol liked red meat in her sandwich.”

     At this the old drunk broke into such a fit of cawing that Harry was hard pressed not to slap his face.

     “What d’you mean?”

     “You born yesterday?”  Stokes rolled his eyes, “Take a look at the colour of your own cock sometime,

     “Who told you?”

     “Wouldn’t you like to know Yankee?”  His eyes sharpened and he made a lewd gesture.  “Want a test drive or something?  You’re a bit late.”

     Harry stepped in and grabbed the old man’s arm at the elbow and pressed his thumb hard into the bone.    

     “Get off - - ”

     “Who told you?” he said, close enough to smell Stokes’ breath.  He squeezed tighter, digging deep into the joint and the old drunk jerked around like a puppet.

     “Pal of mine - - ” Stokes was gasping with pain.  ”Tougher than you.”

     “Who?” 

     Harry could feel the barman standing behind in silent disapproval but he tightened his grip and Stokes kicked out and knocked the bucket over.

     “Victor Castile.”

      Harry let go and wiped his hand on his pants.

     “He’s an old man,” the barman said quietly. 

     “Should have more respect for the dead.”

     “Ask Vic what she liked if you don’t believe me,” screamed Stokes, spittle hanging off his lip.  He made the same lewd gesture.

     “Where can I find him?”

     Stokes managed a last defiant shot, “It’ll cost you.”

     Harry gave the barman a bill.  “Keep him topped up.”

     Stokes grabbed at the beer when it arrived but Harry got there first.  He held the bottle out of the old man’s reach.

“You bastard - - ”

“I asked you where I could find Castile.”

Stokes glowered some more.  “He’s got a shack on the old Calabar road about twenty miles from Kumba.  Up a track on the right just after a bridge, but watch out or you’ll miss it.  If you get to the Hi Life you’ve gone too far.” 

“That’s more like it,” said Harry and put the bottle on the table with the air of someone training a dog.  “Easy wasn’t it?”

“You bastard.  I’m not telling you any more.”

Harry waved him away, “No problem.”  He wanted to get away. 

“You’ll see - - ”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Vic will show you.”  Stokes suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm.  His fingers were skin and bone, and his grip dug deep like a claw.  “But don’t let on it was me that told you.  Bastard’s got a mean streak.  Killed a guy in Douala who got in his way.  Beat the life out of him with his bare hands.”

     Harry shook him off and stood back. 

     “He used to slap Fanny around too - - said it turned her on.”

     Harry left without saying goodbye, but he’d only got as far as the steps when Stokes hollered after him.

     “Best time to get him is early morning.  He’ll be sleeping it off.”

     Harry slammed the car door with Stokes’ words ringing in his ears.  The old drunk had a filthy mind all right but he wasn’t smart enough to cook up a story like that, least of all under the painful pressure of a crushed elbow.  But as Harry drove off a question kept coming back to him: why had Eileen O’Connell lied about Castile’s criminal record? 

     She’d feigned ignorance, some other contraband racket, but she must've known.  She'd gragged about drinking in dives and the Frenchman was a hood, no question about it.  Harry wondered again about his gun: he'd wanted to bring it, but Sal had warned him off.  Given the spate of airline highjacks, she said that travelling with a gun was just asking for trouble and like a fool he'd listened. 

     Back at the hotel he was steered into the bar by Jean to do the deal with M Ricard.  He paid up in full, no hard bargaining because it was Candace’s money and she had enough to fly out on some wild goose chase, so tough, the woman obviously had money to burn.

     “Does the name Didier Nkumbé mean anything to you?” he asked after he’d got himself a cold beer and they’d exchanged a few routine pleasantries typical of men-of-the-world encounters in far-off and unlikely places.  Ricard had complimented him on his French, "sounds Swiss," and Harry had nodded - - that was where he'd picked it up.

     “Not particularly,” said Ricard, a short wiry man with a pepper-and-salt van Dyke beard and a cheroot to go with it. “It’s quite a common name.”

     “What about Ebolowa?”

     “It’s down south near the border.”

     “Any oil down there?” 

     It was a shot in the dark and Ricard looked a bit startled, “no, it’s cocoa territory.  But now you come to mention it, I think there's a big shot called Nkumbé with Total.”

     “Really. Didier Nkumbé?”

     Ricard frowned and flicked the ash off his cheroot.  He shook his head, “no - - sorry, it’s gone, but it’s something like that.  Could be, or David - - damn - - my memory’s going.  Too many years in this sauna!”

     “How many is that?”

     “Hate to think.”  He stubbed out the cheroot and drained his glass.  “Over twenty in one place or another.”

     “Ever heard of a guy called Victor Castile?  Bit of a crook - - ”

      “Yeah, Castile, mean bastard.  Got into a fight with a young hot head we had working on our project.”  He shook his head again.  “One of the reasons I’m glad to be going home, guys like him.”

     “Like what?”

     “He’s a colon, a settler," he said getting up to go.  “They give the rest of us a bad name.”