EBOLOWA 17

17

 

 

The Inspector had made his mark too and Harry was left marvelling at how the big man had survived so long.  Maverick cops were rare enough and Takere had been looking for trouble.  He sipped his beer and glanced through the brochure for the hotel’s unique attractions: the delicious prawns (the Portuguese word camaron had given the country its name), the mountain (second highest in Africa and porters available on request) and “the famous” Mile 12 beach within easy reach.  There was no mention of why the beach was famous.

 A couple of girls barely out of their teens came into the bar and sat down on the bar stools.  They crossed their legs to make sure he noticed how short their skirts were and the barman gave them cokes that would last until business arrived.  He was just about to take his beer into the garden when the double doors burst open and a large man in a short-sleeved shirt strode towards him with an out-stretched hand.

“Welcome to the Mountain Hotel Mr Kaplan,” he said in a deep bass.  “Hans Ouweneel.  I manage the place for my sins.”

“Good to meet you.”  He shook the man’s hand. 

“You’ve made quite a splash.“

“Really?”

“Well, we don’t get that many private eyes from Chicago.“

“News travels pretty fast round here.”

“Jungle drums - - “ The man laughed, a big sound to go with his size.  “And I happened to see ex-Inspector Takere on the way in.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“He’s over the moon, a guy like you closing the Castile case!  He says you couldn’t make it up.”

He shrugged,  “I just passed on the news.”  The case wasn’t closed but it wasn’t his job to say so. 

“Still makes you a hero in Takere’s book.  He can’t wait to see Douala jump.”

“He told me.” 

“Let me show you round my estate.”

They walked out onto the lawn and the same mournful whistle from Castile’s place piped up again.

“What’s that bird?”

“Haven’t a clue.  I’m only interested if you can eat them.”

They stopped and looked out over the distant ocean.  A single church bell was ringing.

“Beautiful,“ said Harry.

“It’s even better at sunset.”  It sounded like a sales pitch. “Another beer?  Takere is picking up the bill.  He said he owes you.”

“He doesn’t, but thank you.”

Ouweneel gestured towards a parasol of thatched leaves and put his fingers in his mouth to produce an ear-splitting whistle.  A man in a white jacket appeared on the terrace.  “Two beers Paul, from the cold fridge!”

They sat down in the deck chairs and Ouweneel shifted around from side to side.  It wasn’t built for his size but he eventually settled and lit a cigarette.

“You’ve got quite a place here,” said Harry.

“You should’ve seen it when I arrived.  It was supposed to be a temporary break from marital trouble in Rotterdam but turned into more than fifteen years.”  He sighed.  “I really should’ve moved on by now.”

“Easy to see why not.”  Harry nodded at the view but privately he was struck by an image of the big Dutchman as a beached whale.

“No, I should’ve done something else with my life.”

“It’s pretty impressive.  I read your brochure.“

“Arrrgh. It’s so out of date!  The photographs!”

“Well, I guess they don’t quite do Mile 12 justice.”

“That’s because you can’t fake it, but it’s the only beach around, which is lucky for us.  The French go down to cool off and come up here for Sunday lunch.  You should’ve seen us earlier.  Heaving - - ”

“Even with the riptide?”

He shrugged.  “It’s the only  around.”

“How bad is the rip?”

“Bad.  Very bad.  One minute it’s like a duck pond and the next a raging torrent.  Comes out of nowhere, bang!” He snapped his fingers.  “Apparently you have to let it take you and swim back.  Trouble is it goes a hell of a long way out.”

“I suppose you know Annie Fayol drowned in it?“

He nodded.  “It’s morbid but I think it’s one of the reasons people go there, and she wasn’t the only one either.  There was a suicide not long after I arrived, a woman walked straight into it stark naked - - pretty too, or that’s what they say.” 

The barman arrived with the beers on a tray, the green bottles glistening in the sun.  He flipped off the tops and poured them out.

“Cheers, as the English say,” said the Dutchman raising his glass.  “Welcome to West Cameroon.”

Harry raised his glass in reply.  “Did you know Victor Castile?”

“Hardly, but I heard a lot about him. The Inspector was one of our regulars.”  He rolled his eyes and held his hands out like an angler showing off the size of his catch.  “You can get a reputation round here without dabbling with the Lagos oil mafia, but don’t believe everything you hear. Otherwise we’d have more affairs than Peyton Place.”

“Like the one between Castile and Annie Fayol?“

He wrinkled his nose.  “That’s what I mean about moving on.  All we get is gossip, gruel for the undernourished - - thin stuff at the best of times but it gets thinner every time it‘s served.  You must get the genuine thing as a private eye, haute cuisine.“

“Only in Hollywood.”

But the Dutchman wasn’t listening: everybody thought private eyes were like Philip Marlowe. They’d read the books or seen the movies.

“I wish I had the figure for it,” he sadly tapping his waistline with fingers that showed no sign of knuckles.  Damp patches were spreading under his armpits.

“It’s mostly desk work and chasing leads than go nowhere, like the name Didier Nkumbé.  Ring a bell?”

Ouweneel frowned.  “Is he a Minister or something?”

“Could be.”

“I’ll ask my bar manager.  He pays much more attention to what happens over the border.”

“The border?”

“It feels as if its still there, except we use francs.”

“What about Eileen O’Connell, the US Chargée?”

“We hardly overlapped.” He struggled out of the deck chair.  “Look, I’ve got to get into the kitchen now, but I’d like to share a brandy later. I recommend the francolins by the way.  They’re like guinea fowl but gamier and we do them with lemon and garlic and a touch of chilli.”

Harry grinned. “Sounds great.”  He downed his beer and got up.  “Could I check your old registers?  I want to see if Annie Fayol stayed here.“

“Be my guest.”

     They were locked away and covered in dust but the Dutchman leant Harry a senior member of staff, a grizzled old guy called Noah who‘d worked at the hotel all his life.  Together they dug out the volume for 1956 and Noah wiped the book clean with a damp cloth.  It only took a minute for Harry to find the entry he was looking for: Annie Fayol had stayed for just one night, May 15, two weeks before she drowned, but there was no entry for any of the prime suspects.

     “We used to keep a Visitor’s Book,” Noah said, arriving with another thick volume.

     Harry flipped through it, skimming over phrases like “superlative views” and “glorious gardens!” until he came across an entry written in the same emphatic hand as the faded postcard: “A comfortable stay,” it said, “but the operation of a color bar is deplorable.  Annie Fayol.” 

     “When did the hotel start accepting black guests?” he asked the old man.

     “After Independence, sir.  1960.”

     “Huh, it figures,” said Harry, closing the book and conjuring up the past.  It fitted together all right, Annie meeting her man on the mountain and him being barred from even having a drink.  Presumably they’d left after she’d made her feelings known. 

     Back in the lobby he was lucky enough to get an international line almost immediately and Sal picked up right away.

     “Harry - - “

     “Sorry to bust into your weekend,” he said, “but it’s urgent.  Castile is dead - - “

     “What - - “

     “Yeah, murdered, so can you stop Dr Fayol getting on that plane?  Tell her I’ve found Nkumbé.“

     “Where?”

     “In the Government.”

     “Wow.  Like Annie said, big players - - ”

     “Right.  Another reason for stopping Candace from coming.”

     “How for God’s sake?  She’s dead set.”

     “Say I need her to figure out what O’Connell’s playing at.”

     “Oh yeah, like she’s going to take it from little old me.”

     “Tell her she’s pulling the strings.“

     “Is she?”

     “She’s definitely mixed up in it.”

     Sal sighed.  “OK Harry, I’ll try.”

     “Thanks.  I owe you,” he said and rung off.

     He found Jules Raymond’s number in his book and dialled it.  A woman answered and told him in poor French with an excruciating English accent that M. Raymond was asleep.  He was supposed to be convalescing.

“My news will do him the world of good,” Harry said, reverting to English.  “Greetings from an old friend.  Tell him when he wakes up that Harry Kaplan came all the way from Chicago to deliver them.”

“Ooh, you’re American,” she said clearly relieved.  “Chicago!”

She had a nasal accent like John Lennon.  “You’re from Liverpool,” he said. 

“Yes - - how did you know?”

“I was there just the other day,” a little white lie.  “Great city, fab music.“

“Really - - that’s amazing.  What a coincidence.”

“Yep, it’s a small world but Liverpool is at the centre of it.“  He didn’t give her his line on coincidences.  “I promise not to get him too excited.”

“He’s actually a very difficult patient.  He doesn’t listen and is used to getting his own way.”  The nurse was coming to the fore.  “He’s still smoking.”

“Jesus,” said Harry, laying it on.  “That must be tough for you, Miss - - sorry but I didn’t catch your name?“

“Jenny Fitzgerald, but everyone calls me Fitz.  My friends anyway.“

“Fitz is great.  Call me Harry.  Maybe you’d like to show me round on your day off?”

“Oooh yes, I’d like that.”  She sighed.  “I get all day Fridays and Wednesday nights.”

 “My boss may be coming over too, which is another good reason for letting me talk to your’s.  He used to know her sister.”  

“OK, you make it hard to say no.”  She stifled a giggle.  “So when can I show you round?”

“Friday should be fine.  I’ll call you mid week to confirm.”

“Great.  But not Wednesday night.  I’ll be out.  Girls’ night.”

“I’ll remember, no mixing with the girls.”  He paused.  "I suppose you have to help him out?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Work stuff, you know, little errands."

"Oh yes, I see," she said sounding relieved, "yes, I do, he's always asking to run little errands, like the post - - or the mail as you'd could it."

"So, would the name Victor Castile be familiar?"

The line went very quiet after the sound of a sharp intake of air. 

"Fitz - - you OK?" he asked.

"Yes."  Her voice trembled slightly.  "I'm sorry, but can I leave the subject of Victor Castile until I see you?"

"Sure, no problem.  I take it you know him?"

"We both do."  And with that the young Englishwoman said good bye and rang off.

Harry put the phone down and gathered his thoughts.  there were a lot of tangled connections, past and present, and now there was a dead body.  He went through to the restaurant and Ouweneel showed him to his table.  Most of the others were taken.

“Busy - - “

Ouweneel smiled, “thanks to our chef’s reputation and the joys of Mile 12.  I took the liberty of opening you a bottle of Aligoté.  On the house.”

“No need - - “

Ouweneel waved away his protests and poured him a glass.  “Like I said, Mr Kaplan - - “

“Harry please.“

“I told you, we don’t normally get private eyes staying here, least of all witnesses to murder - - “

“I wasn’t a witness.”

Ouweneel chuckled, “poetic licence my friend, for us undernourished.” 

Harry sipped the wine.  It was cool and crisp.  He started with a chilled melon spiced with cinnamon and ginger before the waiter brought him a plate of tiny deep-fried fish “caught on the dawn tide in the Wouri” served fresh garlic mayonnaise.  They tasted of the ocean and he’d just scooped up the last when the waiter struck a glass with a knife.  Everyone looked up as Hans Ouweneel stepped up on to a small podium with a glass of wine in his hand and a big smile on his face.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said and then repeated himself in French and Dutch and Pidgin.  “I don’t want to distract you from what I hope is another wonderful meal from our kitchen - - “ He broke off and bowed as warm applause swept across the room.  “But tonight is not just any old night, which is why we are treating all our honoured guests to a bottle of Aligoté.” 

Harry joined in another round of applause before Ouweneel waved it away and continued.  “I wanted you to join me in a toast to my fifthteenth year at the Mountain Hotel.  When I arrived it was mainly a British affair, but now,“ he looked around and smiled with pleasure, “I can proudly lay claim to a truly cosmopolitan dining room with guests from all over the world.  Tonight we have people from Paris, Geneva, Amsterdam, Lagos, and even Chicago.  May I offer you all my congratulations on finding us and wish you bon appétit and a speedy return.  Salut.”

There was another burst of applause as Ouweneel stepped down and made his way across the floor of the restaurant, pausing here and there to accept the praises of his guests and respond to the occasional raised glass.  By the time he got to Harry’s table his glass was empty.

“A very pretty speech - - congratulations.“

Ouweneel grinned, “more poetic licence.  The dates have got a bit blurred and I’m the guest from Amsterdam.”

The waiter arrived with the main course on a tray:  half a francolin garnished with fresh parsley and surrounded by glistening shallots, buttered baby carrots, boiled potatoes and a pat of steaming spinach.  Harry leant over the plate and inhaled the rich aroma.

“Smells fantastic,” he said and raised his glass.  “Here’s to more of these while I’m here.”

They both drank deeply and Harry popped a shallot in his mouth, sweet and perfectly cooked.  He cut into the thigh of the bird and the bone fell away from the body.

“Perfect.”

“This is for later.”  The Dutchman passed him a folded newspaper with the headline in view, “NIGERIAN OIL RACKET: TOTAL BOSS SLAMS OPEC”.  “I was wrong about Nkumbé.  He used to be a Minister.”

Harry took it and was just about to glance down the column when they were both distracted by a disturbance in the restaurant entrance. The headwaiter was in discussion with two very tall gendarmes.  It seemed to be getting heated and the headwaiter looked across the room at Ouweneel. 

“Ahhh,” he said, “excuse me but I see we have visitors.”

He gestured and set off in their direction but before he’d taken a second step the gendarmes had taken off towards them.  Harry watched as they glided with sinuous ease between the crowded tables and the contented murmur of well-fed diners gave way to an expectant hush.  Harry put his knife and fork down and braced himself for something bad.  Late night calls from the cops had never been good news in Budapest and Chicago and he couldn’t see Cameroon being any different.