EBOLOWA 26

26

 

 

Thursday morning.

 

     Candace had slept badly with dreams and jet lag and had woken with enough of an ache behind her eyes to make her grouchy, but at least she’d managed to find the details the old journalist.  Harry had entered them below his short bio on Eileen O’Connell, which recorded the information that she was “East coast fancy college, French expert and New Dealer in Paris/Vichy, worked on Atlantic Charter (whatever that was) with FDR, and post-war FS/CIA before sacked 1973 (for NORAID/IRA connection).”  The final line of the bio jumped off the page, the same tight spidery writing as last night but now clean and clear in the light of day and carrying shock information: “1954 CIA report rape/murder US female - - unknown ID, classified/cover up??” 

     Candace flipped back to the diagram at the end of Harry's notebook and traced the line he’d drawn between the skull and cross bones dated ’54 and the boxed “EOC”.  She took in a deep breath: last night had been a nightmare, total chaos, and she hadn’t known what to make of Harry’s information but now it was horrifically clear - - an American woman had been murdered two years before Annie arrived, which US chargé Eileen O’Connell had reported to the CIA.

     Her first reaction was to be pissed with Harry for keeping her in the dark, but then she snapped the notebook shut and marched out into the lobby to call Jules Robert.  She figured O’Connell and the CIA might have buried the truth but a local journalist like him should’ve picked up the scent of something that big.  She dialled and waited with one hand pressing down on the butterflies exploding in her stomach.  Eventually a woman answered, with an English accent: “M Robert's resident nurse” she said with a hint of putting the record straight before anybody could get the wrong idea about her living in.  “Monsieur is recovering from a serious heart attack and doesn’t get up until mid day.  Can I take message?”

     Candace began to explain who she was when the young woman interrupted and started to babble crazily about Harry calling her up and being arrested for murder the very next day.  “We had a da - - an arrangement for tonight,” the nurse said, biting back the word date, “I was going to show him round.  It’s my night off.”

“Really.”

     The young woman had set off again on some breathless fizz about Harry being a private eye from Chicago and it took Candace’s frostiest clinic mode to cut her off.

     “I know what Mr Kaplan does,” she said, “that’s why I employed him.  What I want you to do is to let M Robert know that I will call on him this evening.”  She drummed her fingers on the phone platform.  “What time do you go off shift?”

     The battle was won, the hierarchy defined, nurse backing down to doctor.

     “Six o’clock - - “

     “And what time does Monsieur Robert eat in the evening?”

     “He has something light, cold meat, salad, at seven - -”

     “Perfect.”  Her best clipped style.  “Then I’ll drop by after he’s finished, say 7.45.  Tell him I have some of my sister’s photographs that I’d like him to see.  I have his address.”

     She put the phone down and headed back into the restaurant in a better frame of mind.  An appointment with Robert felt like progress and now she needed a cup of coffee, maybe even breakfast.  She poured herself some fresh OJ from the self-service table and took a seat near the window.  She sipped the juice and ran her finger down the spine of Harry’s notebook.  He’d obviously done a lot on the case, even if some of it like Victor Castile was up a blind alley. She glanced at the hotel clock, a fifties model reminding her of the one at home, and nodded with satisfaction:  she was getting the hang of Harry’s writing and had plenty of time to go through the notebook before the chargé turned up. 

     She drained her glass and looked around to order but suddenly everyone had disappeared.  She was aware of a commotion out front with the sounds of a scuffle and was on the point of getting up to take a look when the Dutchman blew in looking like a kid who’d been given the day off school.

     “Jesus Candace,” he said, coming over and sitting down, “it’s worse than the airport out there.  May I?” 

     She nodded and he passed her a set of car keys.    “Sorry to barge in on your breakfast, but you need these, Harry’s car, it’s outside I’ll show you, and - - well, I’m kicking myself because I should’ve thought of it last night, but the fact is you’re going to need protection.”

     She raised her eyebrows.  It was far too early for melodrama but it was obvious that last night’s knight in shining armour was still in the saddle and enjoying himself.  He was bursting to tell her something but she put him off by twisting round impatiently. 

     “What d’you have to do round here to get a darned cup of coffee?“

     The Dutchman shouted something unintelligible and snapped his fingers.  A waiter materialised and he bawled him out in what she now knew was Pidgin.

     “What d’you mean,” she asked, “protection?”

     “Well,” Hans said, basking in the glory of the guy who gets things done, “the thing is they’re all agog.”

     “What about?”

     “You, Candace.”  He smiled broadly.  “You’re big news, but I fobbed them off with an interview.”

     She was stunned.  “You did what?”

     “The press is out there and the radio,” he said, irrepressible, “it’s a hell of a story.”

     She sat bolt upright and glared at him.  “Hans, exactly what story are you talking about?”

     He flushed and looked downcast, a punctured pink balloon.  “Well you know - - Castile and Harry and the oil mafia.”  A scarlet tide rode up his neck and cheeks and he undid another button on his shirt.  “You know - - ”

     She shook her head.  “No I don’t know.”

     “Well - - this whole thing about Chicago being the crime capital of the world.  You know the press, they print what they like.”

     She went very quiet and spread yesterday’s paper out in front of him.  Outwardly calm, she was seething inside.  Notoriety was the last thing she’d come to Cameroon for.

     “All that stuff is old news Hans,” she said, “Castile dead and Harry the hit man for the oil mafia was in yesterday’s paper, so what on earth do I have to do with it?”

     He flapped his hands so much that the table started to vibrate and a spoon rattled against a glass.  She put a hand over her eyes and exhaled loudly.

     “For God’s sake Hans, please sit still.”

     He jerked to attention.  “I’m sorry Candace, but they already knew Harry was working for you.“

     “As well as the oil mafia?”

     “Well, what I mean is that you’re both big stories out there today.”

     “I only just got here.”  She leant forwards, her hands spread flat on the table.  “So who the hell told them?”

     He almost cowered, no idea she could be that fierce.  “It wasn’t me.”

     “You sure you didn’t mention me to any of your staff last night?”

     She watched him frown, going through every conversation before shaking his head.  “No, I just said I was going to the airport.”

     The image of their meeting came back to her - - the only two white people in the building.  “You were holding up my name on a card in Arrivals.”

     “Not for long - - “

     “Long enough,” she said.  “Hundreds of people could’ve seen it.  Damn, damn.  What about Harry?  He told you about me.”

“Only so there was somebody to meet you.  I don’t think he told anyone else.”

She wondered but just drew back from the table and lit a cigarette whilst her gallant companion rushed through his pockets for a lighter.

     “You’re too fast,” he said finally holding up a lighter with a loopy grin on his face.

     She blew smoke in the air.  “Obviously.”  She was still pissed with him and he was mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

     “Sorry - - ”

     She waved away his apology.  “Forget it, you saved me last night, but I’d actually appreciate knowing what kind of news I am making.  Exactly what did you say to the media in your five minutes of fame?”  She broke off - - it wasn’t fair to treat him like Bill Holden.  “I’m sorry Hans, but you can see why I’m annoyed.”

     He flapped some more, “sure, sure, Candace, absolutely - - but as soon as I saw the scrum I knew they were after you and I just - - well - - shot from the hip I guess, as usual, my big mouth.”

     “By saying?”

     “Nothing much, just why you’d come over.”  He clammed up, caught in the act.  “What else could I say?  It’s not my fault Annie is still a hot topic.”

     “Jesus Hans - - ”

     “Well, whatever you call it.  She’s - - newsworthy.”  He shrugged and met her gaze.  “I might’ve handled it badly, but like it or not, you and Annie are a big story and I’m the best shield you’ve got until Harry gets out.”  He gave her the loopy grin and shrugged again.  “Plus I’ve already got a lead on Nkumbé for you.”     

     “Really - - ”

     “Yeah.”  He brightened up, Marlow back on the case.  “I guessed he went to the Lycée in Ebolowa, which is run by the American Presbyterian Mission, so I called them this morning and fixed us a meeting at ten tomorrow with their oldest surviving member of the staff at Ebolowa - - ”

     “A woman called Miss Fleming,” she said, breaking in and watching his jaw drop.  “She’s high on my list of people to see - - ”

     The would-be private eye looked dismayed.  “You knew about her?”

     She nodded and decided not to show him the cutting.  “I found a reference to her in Annie’s things and I think he had a sister called Esther who worked for the Mission at Ebolowa.”

     “That’s interesting,” he said recovering his composure, his flushed features returning to normal.  “I’m impressed.  We could drive down there if you like.  I’ve asked around and it’s obviously Nkumbé’s home patch.”

     “Really - - ”

     “Yeah, he was a Minister and more or less runs Total.”  He rubbed his finger and thumb together.  “He’s loaded.  But you’ll need a help down there with the lingo.”

     “Sure, all in good time Hans, after I’ve seen Miss Fleming.”  Dismay clouded his broad features and she felt a twinge of guilt.  “I’ll need you for the riskier stuff - - I mean, who could be less of a threat that a retired old missionary? I’ll let you know how it goes.”

     “OK but what about today?  I took the day off.”

     “Well, I’m going to be pretty busy with Logan this morning and an old journalist contact of my sister’s tonight - - “

     “Who’s that?”

     “Jules Robert."

 

     He snorted, “well I got to say I’m happy to leave him to you, snotty so and so - - ”

     “How so?”

     He waved a big hand.  “He’d stay once in a while on one of his so-called stories and was so condescending about our cuisine - - over this side the restaurants have two menus, one with local produce and one ten times more expensive with imported French ingredients.  Good luck.”

     “Thanks.”

     “Actually I hear he’s been poorly.”

     She trumped him again.  “He has been, but he’s got a resident nurse, a young English - - ”

     “Fitz!”  He jumped and his big thighs smacked into the table.  “I know her too - - it’s a small place.  She used to work in the hospital in Buea and was a regular in the hotel.  Sad to lose her, actually.”

     He sat back looking relieved and redeemed, the waiter arrived with the coffee and it looked as if they were back to being a team again but her mind was elsewhere.  She stubbed out her cigarette half-smoked and grimaced: Harry was in jail for murder and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.