Читать книгу Tall, Dark And Deadly - Madeline Harper - Страница 8

“Chérie, slow down. You will hurt yourself.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, drawing in the night air in huge gulps. “I’m a little...” She struggled for words.

“Agitée?” He looked over her shoulder toward the shadowy form in the garden. “Alex. I should have known. You must forgive him. He does not stop to think. For Alex, to make love is as natural as to breathe.”

“Make love? No, he just made a pass, he didn’t—”

Louis chuckled softly. “In French ‘make love’ can be no more than to touch or even suggest. It is all lovemaking in our language. And when a beautiful woman appears...”

“I think there’s a compliment there somewhere,” she managed, “but he’s so damned arrogant—”

“On this we agree.” Louis took her arm. “Shall we walk by the river and cool off? There’s a delightful breeze, and I assure you I’m quite sober now. And unlike my rude friend, I shall make no passes.”

Dana hesitated, but Louis held her firmly by the elbow and kept the conversation going. “You see, the problem with Alex is that he is only one half French. His mother was American, and he spent many years in the States. This is not to say anything negative about your country,” he added graciously, “but over there he lost something of the French savoir faire women so much admire.”

“He’s lacking something. You’re right about that,” Dana muttered. “Manners, to begin with.”

“Indeed,” Louis replied. “He does not have an abundance of manners. Also, he can be quite ruthless when he has to be. But enough talk of Alex. He is only an innkeeper in an outpost far from civilization. Instead, let us speak of the Pygmies, which we both find so fascinating.”

“I thought perhaps you had lost interest in the subject.”

“And why is that, my dear?”

“Well, at dinner—”

“Oh, yes. I avoided conversation,” he admitted.

“So did Alex.”

“Hmm.” Louis stopped. “May I smoke?”

“Of course.”

He lit a narrow black cigarillo and inhaled deeply. “We both avoided conversation at the table tonight, Alex and I,” Louis said. “The reasons for this are very complicated.”

Dana waited, wondering if he would mention the other conversation, the one she’d heard—or thought she’d heard—as she dozed off in her room.

“But I will not bother you with this,” he said.

“Please, it’s all right.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “There are more important subjects for us to talk about.”

Before she could respond, they were interrupted by the approach of another couple coming toward them along the path. Betty and Yassif.

They stepped aside. “Lovely evening, is it not?” Louis asked pleasantly.

Betty nodded, but Yassif only scowled.

“Pleasant fellow,” Louis joked when they were out of earshot.

“I wonder what she sees in him,” Dana began before realizing the naïveté of the question.

They stopped at a crumbling wall near the riverbank. Thick green vegetation crept toward them, seemingly overwhelming everything in its path. A hazy mist enveloped the night and magnified the great silence that surrounded them. It was both fascinating and eerie.

“About the Pygmies. You wish to travel even farther into the mysterious jungle in search of them,” Louis said.

“Yes, I do. Now I have the perfect opportunity, since we’re going to be stuck here for a while. I realize you’re reluctant to take me to them, but maybe there’s someone you could recommend.”

“There are no guides in this village, but perhaps some miles upstream.” Louis puffed silently and stared out into the blackness. “A man named McQuire once took me deep into the rain forest.”

“McQuire,” Dana repeated. “An Englishman?”

“Irishman, I believe. He has been a guide for over thirty years. Of course, I don’t know if he is still alive.” Louis shrugged elegantly. “As I have told you, the jungle is a dangerous place.”

“I understand that,” Dana said impatiently, “but maybe I could see the fringes, at least. What’s the point of being in the Congo if I can’t have an adventure or two?”

Louis looked amused “Indeed, what is the point of life...without an adventure or two? And nowhere is there more possibility for excitement than here on the banks of the Congo. A thousand miles of brown ribbon cutting through a carpet of green, and on the river time means nothing. We live for the day.”

“How romantic,” Dana said.

“When a Frenchman speaks of the Congo, it is always romantic,” Louis replied with a smile.

“There’s just one problem.”

“And what is that, dear Dana?”

“The mosquitoes!” They were buzzing around her head. She slapped at them ineffectually. “They’re driving me crazy. I’m afraid I’ll have to go inside.”

“I understand, although they seem to avoid me,” Louis said with a soft laugh. “Perhaps it is the smoke from my cigarillo. Meanwhile, remember your antimalaria pills, a must here in Africa.”

“I will, but for now—”

“Yes, go to your mosquito netting,” Louis said, “and as for me, I shall stay here a while longer and smoke.”

“Then good night,” Dana said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe we can find that McQuire fellow.”

“Maybe,” Louis said softly. “Au revoir, chérie.”

He watched her walk away, enjoying the soft flow of her dress as it caressed her hips and the bounce of her hair on her shoulders. He’d found Dana lovely from the first moment, and it was no wonder that Alex felt the same. Alex, Louis thought, so precipitative and aggressive. Not the kind of man to let well enough alone.

Louis took a last drag on his cigarillo and drew the thick, pungent smoke deep into his lungs. Was there anything more pleasant, he wondered, than standing near the world’s most magnificent river, replete with good food and wine, as he watched the delicate movement of a beautiful woman walking through the night?

If there was, Louis couldn’t imagine.

He sighed deeply, turned toward the river and never noticed the barely perceptible movement of the high grass on the hillside. Nor did he hear the soft, deadly sound that followed. He only felt the sting, like that of a night insect, in the soft tissue of his neck. The pain came an instant later, causing him to grasp his throat with both hands, as he choked for breath.

Suddenly he knew—he understood! But it was too late. Louis sank to his knees, fell forward, hitting his head on the stone wall, and then crumpled to the ground and lay still.

* * *

“THIS IS NOT a good way to begin a day. Not good at all,” Police Sergeant Jean Luc Kantana confided dourly to Alex. “To be awakened at three in the morning to the news that crew members returning to the Congo Queen stumbled over a dead body. And then to discover it is the body of Louis Bertrand—”

Alex stared straight ahead, his face set like granite. His thoughts were dark, as they had been since the moment news had come to him that Louis’s body had been found. But he wasn’t about to console Kantana. The policeman wasn’t his problem.

“I’m not pleased myself to learn that my old friend is dead and the Stanley has been taken over by gendarmes.”

“All proper protocol will be observed, my friend,” Kantana assured. “We will, of course, question Porte Ivoire locals, but my instincts tell me...” The sergeant’s words faded as he looked around the hotel lobby where Alex had gathered the guests.

“You think the killer is in this group?” Alex regarded Kantana curiously. “Why would you suspect that?” He’d known Kantana for five years and hoped he could use that friendship to find out what was on the policeman’s mind.

Kantana answered obliquely. “Most murders in Porte Ivoire are easily solved. Two men fight in a bar over a woman. A woman knifes her philandering husband. This, I believe, is different from the usual local crime.”

“Louis was killed with a dart from a blowgun, Jean Luc. I would suggest that’s a local weapon.”

“Such paraphernalia can be purchased up and down the Congo by any of your guests. Or by you.” His smile was cool. “Everyone is a suspect, Alex. The death of a foreigner must be carefully investigated. And now, I must get to work.”

He stepped away from Alex and addressed the room. “Mesdames and messieurs. It is time to begin. Mademoiselle Baldwin, shall we start with you?”

Dana had struggled to control her shock, but her hands shook noticeably as she raised her coffee cup to her lips. “I was with him by the river,” she said softly, almost to herself. “We were talking, making plans—”

She broke off, aware of everyone’s eyes on her. Kantana’s were alert and probing, but his dark, handsome face revealed nothing.

“Plans?” His voice was deceptively soft and gentle.

Dana attempted to explain. “Tentative plans to find a guide to take me into Pygmy territory. We talked about going together. Maybe...” Her voice trailed off.

“I see.” Kantana nodded solemnly. “You have knowledge of the Mgembe?”

The room was still, the only sound a gentle whirring of the overhead fan. Alex leaned against the arched doorway of the lobby, his lanky body perfectly relaxed, one hand in his pocket. He’d passed up coffee and was sipping a cognac and watching Kantana, not Dana. Everyone else’s eyes seemed to be focused on her.

On a rattan love seat beside the door, Betty and Yassif sat side by side, staring at her, Betty’s face sharp and unfriendly, Yassif’s sleepy-eyed and sullen. Huddled quietly in a corner, Maurice Longongo watched her with his ferret eyes. Dana felt herself shiver involuntarily. Even Millicent, who had stopped her bustle to refill coffee cups, watched and waited.

“The Mgembe?” Kantana repeated.

“I was interested in them. Everyone knew that.” Her gaze took in the whole room. “But Louis seemed to be the most knowledgeable, and certainly he was the most helpful.”

Kantana scribbled on a pad. “Now Mademoiselle Baldwin, tell me please, at what time did you walk with Monsieur Bertrand by the river?”

“After dinner. I’m not sure.”

“Immediately after dinner?” Kantana pressed.

“No, I—” Dana hesitated, wondering whether or not to mention her encounter with Alex in the garden. She glanced quickly at him, but his eyes were still on the policeman.

“About ten o’clock,” Betty said with authority. “Yassif and I were returning to the hotel and saw them heading toward the river. I guess we’re witnesses.”

Dana shot her a surprised look. Witnesses?

Kantana made a careful note. “And how long did you remain with him?”

“Not long. The mosquitoes drove me away.” Dana remembered her farewell to Louis, the sound of his soft au revoir floating on the hot night air, and her eyes filled with tears. “Maybe if I’d stayed with him, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Millicent crossed to Dana’s chair and patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. No one blames you for what happened to poor Louis.”

Maybe not, but Dana felt as if all of them, even Millicent, were skeptical. “He was your friend, too, Millicent.”

“Yes, he was, for many years,” she replied.

“I’m so sorry,” Dana offered.

“It’s not your fault.”

There it was again, the release from blame that was somehow damning.

“Why would anyone want to kill Louis?” Dana asked. “He was so sweet and gentle.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Betty snapped. “He was also involved in all sorts of sordid little deals. Louis was no angel despite the fact that he stuck like a leech to Father Theroux on the trip.”

That was true, Dana remembered. He’d seemed devoted to the elderly man. The wine merchant and the village priest—an unlikely pairing.

“Dear Lord, one of us needs to tell Father Theroux about Louis,” Millicent said.

“I’m sure he knows,” Alex replied laconically. “News travels fast in Porte Ivoire. Especially bad news.”

“The priest will be told—and questioned,” Kantana said coolly, dismissing the subject and moving on to continue his interrogation of Dana. “Did anyone notice you returning to the hotel?”

“I don’t think so.” She looked around the room hopefully, but no one spoke up. “I used the side steps to the second-floor veranda. Then I went directly to my room and to bed.”

Kantana wrote on his pad and then one by one asked each of the other guests their whereabouts from ten o’clock until the body was found. He listened carefully to the responses.

“So,” he said as he completed the rounds, “each of you was alone in your bedroom—”

“Yassif and I were together,” Betty announced, reaching for her lover’s hand. “Some of us have nothing to worry about. We have alibis.”

“Some of us have been known to lie.” That was Alex. His remark caused Betty’s face to redden. She opened her mouth to reply and then thought better of it.

Kantana continued without missing a beat. “With the exception of Mademoiselle Weston and Monsieur Al-Aram, who were together—so they say—and my friend Alex, who was in his office.”

“I often stay up late,” came Alex’s response.

Kantana got to his feet. “Now I must ask your further indulgence. At this time we will search your rooms.”

Millicent reacted immediately. “Search our rooms? Surely, you joke, Sergeant. Why in the world? The man was killed with a blow dart. Obviously by someone right here in Porte Ivoire—”

Kantana’s reply was as smooth as silk. “So it would seem, as you say, considering the murder weapon. But we have reasons to look elsewhere.”

“Why?” Millicent shot back.

“We found a passport and a wallet filled with cash on the body. What does that mean to you?” he asked the room in general.

Longongo responded, speaking for the first time that morning in his high nasal voice with his impeccable clipped syllables. “It negates the prime motive, perhaps the only one, for murder by a local person, namely robbery. Which means one of us must have another motive. What would that be?”

“I do not know yet,” Kantana admitted, “but I expect to uncover the motive along with the means and the opportunity. And when all three come together, I shall have my killer.”

He snapped his notebook shut, and Dana shivered again. She’d pulled on shorts and a T-shirt when the clerk awakened her. Now, in the cool of dawn, she needed something warmer.

“If I could go to my room for a moment first—” she said to Kantana.

“No, mademoiselle. That would defeat our purpose.”

“I don’t understand. I just need to get something warm to put on—”

“Nothing will be removed until after our search.” His voice had a sharp edge.

Once again, she was made to feel guilty. And just because she was cold.

“Each of you will remain here until the search is completed.” With a slight bow, he turned and went out, followed by his aide.

* * *

THE MORNING seemed interminable. The hotel cooks prepared and set out breakfast, but no one seemed to have much of an appetite. Dana picked at a bowl of fruit, and everyone else did, too. Most of them drank innumerable cups of coffee, including Alex, who had switched from cognac.

When Kantana came downstairs from his search of the guests’ rooms, he commandeered Alex’s office to interview the guests—or suspects, as Dana had begun to think of herself and the others. She tried to give the word a sardonic twist in her mind because it was ridiculous, of course, to think any of them might have murdered Louis Bertrand, but she was still nervous.

Someone had murdered him, and Kantana seemed convinced that it wasn’t a citizen of Porte Ivoire but one of the guests in the Stanley Hotel, or Alex himself, or even Father Theroux.

Slowly they went into the office one by one. First Longongo and then Millicent completed their interviews and returned to their rooms. Yassif was next.

Dana waited silently while Alex disappeared into the kitchen, apparently to communicate with his staff, and Betty paced nervously up and down, glancing at the closed door.

“Don’t worry,” Dana assured her, “Yassif is a big boy. He can answer his own questions.”

Betty puffed out her cheeks and then fell down onto the love seat. “It’s just that he doesn’t speak English very well. His French is worse.”

“Kantana is very patient,” Dana said, wondering suddenly why she should be attempting to pacify Betty, of all people.

“I’m also concerned because our relationship is so new. I’m a little overprotective of Yassif.”

Dana couldn’t find anything encouraging to say about that. She really didn’t want to talk about Betty’s romance with the surly Yassif.

But Betty did. “We met at a party in Brazzaville just before the trip upriver.”

“Did Millicent introduce you?” Dana was curious about that.

Betty bristled. “Yassif and Millicent? Of course not, he’d never be seen with someone like her.”

“I saw them together on the Congo Queen, several times.” A little perverse of her to mention that, Dana realized, but she couldn’t resist.

“And I saw you talk with Louis. Yet you and he weren’t friends, or so you say.” Betty raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Give it a rest, Betty.” That was Alex, appearing at the doorway. “You’re not going to get a story out of this.”

“That’s what you’re after?” Dana asked, confronting Betty. “You want to write about Louis’s death!”

She shrugged. “Why not? A good juicy murder is certainly more interesting than a piece about wildlife of the Congo.”

Dana couldn’t control her disgust. Betty was thinking about this whole horrible episode as a magazine story and had no feelings at all for poor Louis, dead less than twelve hours. Dana mentally took off the gloves. Betty wasn’t going to get any sympathy from her.

Apparently, no one would get sympathy from Alex, who leaned against the lobby doorway, his face unreadable. Dana avoided his eyes, but Betty glared angrily at him. Then she was called by Kantana, and Dana was left alone with Alex.

She felt awkward and uncomfortable around him, with the remembrance of their scene in the garden fresh in her mind. But there was something else going on that she couldn’t put her finger on. He seemed to be studying her intently, as if he was sizing her up. Could he possibly think she was involved in Louis’s death?

Deciding that the best defense was a strong offense, she asked, “Did you go directly to your office last night after you left me in the garden?”

“Playing detective, Dana?”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” she replied. Which was true. She was curious about Alex and where he’d been while she and Louis were by the river. He easily could have followed them.

Alex strolled to the buffet table and poured a cup of coffee. “I’ll answer your question because I have nothing to hide—unlike some of the guests.” His smile was ingenuous. “After our rendezvous in the garden where you obviously misunderstood my overtures of friendship—”

Dana gritted her teeth at his cynical misrepresentation of the episode.

“—I went to my office, spurned and saddened, to bury myself in work.” His eyes sparkled with humor as he watched her surprised reaction. “Good story, isn’t it? In fact, I don’t have an alibi, but neither do you. And you were the last to see Louis alive,” he added softly.

Dana quickly defended herself. “But you were the one who argued with him.”

Before Alex could respond, the office door opened and Betty emerged. The supercilious look on the redhead’s face caused Dana’s heart to sink; it was a look that bore her no goodwill.

An aide ushered Dana into Alex’s office to face the sergeant. Her knees were shaky, and her heart was pounding like a drum. For no reason! She had nothing to be afraid of.

Kantana sat behind Alex’s desk looking solemn and official. The tall, sullen-looking officer dressed in khaki stood behind Kantana staring straight ahead. The sergeant gestured to a straight-backed chair. Dana sank onto it, wiping her damp palms against her shorts. What more could he ask her? What more could she tell him? The silence became ominous and oppressive. And when Kantana finally spoke to her, she jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?

Dana leaned forward to look at what he held in his hand. She recognized it immediately, a long wooden tube, intricately carved. She recalled pictures in her father’s notes, descriptions of an ancient weapon still used by the Pygmies. What Kantana held in his hand was a blowgun.

“I know what it is, but I’ve never seen that one before.”

“Ah, yes.” Kantana put down the weapon and carefully touched his fingertips together, forming a kind of tent with his elegant hands. He leaned back in his chair and spoke in a low voice. “Then how, mademoiselle, do you explain its presence in your room?”

Dana couldn’t believe the question. “You couldn’t have found that in my room. I’ve never seen it in my life!”

“But it was found in your room, mademoiselle.”

“No. There’s been a mistake. That isn’t mine. Someone else left it in the room, maybe a previous guest—”

“No,” the sergeant said crisply. “I have interviewed the maid on your floor. She cleaned the room thoroughly before you moved in. There was nothing, certainly not a weapon. No blowgun.”

Dana was totally confused. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Sergeant. Are you trying to say that this blowgun, which you claim was found in my room, was the weapon that killed Louis?”

“I cannot positively say that. But here are the facts. A dart from a blowgun killed Monsieur Bertrand. Such a gun was found in your room. And you deny any knowledge of it.”

“I certainly do!” Dana’s confusion had turned to anger. “Your accusation is absurd. I hardly knew Louis Bertrand and had no reason to kill him, certainly not with a blowgun. I’ve never touched such a weapon, never even seen one. As far as I’m concerned, this interview is over.”

She started to get to her feet, only to be stopped by a quick move from the aide, whom Kantana controlled with a nod of his head.

“This is...ludicrous,” Dana insisted, even as she sat back down, adding defiantly, “you’re accusing the wrong person, and you’re going to be very sorry.”

He raised skeptical eyebrows. “Oh, do you think so? I show you further evidence, mademoiselle.” He placed a stack of notebooks and papers on the desk. “Detailed notes on the Pygmies. It would seem that you came very well prepared.”

Dana’s anger was replaced by a deep dread. “Those are my father’s notes. He knew about the Pygmies, not I.”

“But you brought them with you,” Kantana said smoothly.

“That was my choice.” She felt suddenly invaded, and she refused to put up with it.

“Not if murder was the result. Now tell me, why did you bring the notes with you?”

Dana chose her words carefully. “I am a language teacher, a professor specializing in rare and exotic tongues. For that reason, my father’s work with the Mgembe interested me. When I had a chance to travel a route he’d taken years before, naturally, I jumped at the opportunity.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “There’s nothing illegal about that.”

“Certainly not,” Kantana agreed. “But it is interesting, to say the least, that both you and Monsieur Bertrand shared a fascination with the Mgembe, that you carried with you notebooks filled with information on the Pygmies, and that he was killed in a way that they are known to murder.” He held up the weapon.

“I didn’t have a blowgun—either that one or any other!” she cried adamantly. “We’ve just arrived here. Where would I have found one?” She knew the answer to that question even before it was out of her mouth.

“In the market. When you went shopping with Mademoiselle Kittredge. She tells me that you were not together throughout that trip.”

“Well, no, we weren’t. I was tired and—” Dana realized that the overly friendly Millicent had passed on information that could seem incriminating. “But I didn’t buy a blowgun then or ever. Even if I had, how do you suggest I poisoned the tip?”

“The poison is also readily available, alas,” he replied with apparent sadness.

“And of course, I know exactly how to administer it,” she said sarcastically.

Kantana placed his hand on top of her father’s notebooks. “It is all here, easy for a clever woman to understand. Indeed, you are a clever woman.”

Dana didn’t like the insinuation in his voice. “Someone planted that blowgun in my room.”

Kantana shrugged, seemingly no longer interested in the topic. “I also have corroborating information that you and Monsieur Bertrand became very close friends during your voyage on the Congo Queen. Do you deny that you spent much time together?”

More incriminating information, this time from Betty’s mouth, which didn’t surprise Dana in the slightest. She was surprised about Millicent’s betrayal, though. So much for the support of her fellow tourists.

“Louis and I spent time together,” she answered finally, “but he was with Father Theroux much more often. Why don’t you question him?”

“As I mentioned, I intend to,” Kantana said coolly “But of course that is my business, the concern of the authorities. Now I ask again, could it be possible that there was a romance of some kind between you and Bertrand? Something that might have caused you to quarrel with him—”

“And to kill him? No, Sergeant. No! The idea is absurd. And you said yourself that you needed a motive—”

“Motive, means and opportunity,” Kantana said, quoting his own earlier remarks. “The latter two, we have established, have we not?”

“No, I—”

“Of course, you had both the means,” he said, touching the blowgun, “and the opportunity. You knew Louis was alone by the river, and you could have approached without alarming him. And of course, you were the last person to be seen with the victim.” He heaved a satisfied sigh. “Further, I now realize that you are an expert on the Mgembe, who have made the blowgun into an art form.”

He settled back comfortably, crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to respond.

That’s when Dana realized that she was caught up in a nightmare too horrible for her to contemplate. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. “You believe I’m guilty,” she blurted out.

He didn’t respond. His face was expressionless.

She suddenly realized was was happening. Kantana was going to arrest her!

Dana struggled to keep her voice calm. “I demand to talk to a lawyer.”

He almost chuckled. “There is no lawyer in Porte Ivoire, mademoiselle.”

“Then I demand my phone call. Surely, even here, an accused person gets at least one call. I want to talk to the American Embassy in Brazzaville.”

“This is not the United States, Mademoiselle. French law is somewhat different from yours. And as much as I would like to oblige you with a phone call, there are no phones in Porte Ivoire.”

“Then use the shortwave radio on the boat,” Dana demanded.

“I shall do this much for you,” Kantana said in noxious tones. “After I interview Father Theroux, I shall send him to talk with you in jail—”

“Jail? No!” Dana was on her feet. “You can’t do that. You can’t put me in jail—not on circumstantial evidence. You’re insane. You’re—”

She saw his face then. Cold, hard, implacable.

“I’m not guilty of this horrible crime,” she said. “I’m not guilty!”

He sat watching wordlessly.

“Why don’t you look where the guilt really lies.” She leaned forward, her hands on his desk, and spoke carefully with all the confidence she could muster. “It belongs on Alex Jourdan.”

As soon as Dana made that statement, she realized her total belief in it. His obnoxious behavior last night had sent her rushing into Louis’s arms—almost as if the whole meeting had been arranged—by Alex. And today, he’d been watchful, mysterious, not just dangerous, but possibly deadly. She’d been suspicious from the beginning. Now she knew why.

“Listen to me,” she demanded. “Alex and Louis were on the outs. Something had gone wrong between them. Everyone knew that. And I overheard them just last night, arguing about a deal of some kind. I heard them!”

“And did anyone else hear this argument, mademoiselle?”

“I don’t know. But everyone was aware of the bad blood between Alex and Louis. You can’t deny that,” she said firmly.

Kantana didn’t flinch. “I, as everyone else, knew of the bad blood between the two men. As for the recent argument, which you say that you overheard, Alex told me that he had warned Bertrand to stay away from you, Mademoiselle. It is unfortunate, is it not, that Bertrand did not listen to the warning?”

The edges of the room grew fuzzy, and Kantana and his aide faded in and out of focus. She wasn’t going to faint, but Dana thought she might be sick. She grasped the arms of the chair and sank into it, her head reeling.

“Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” she said slowly. “I’m a tourist, a college professor. I’ve never been arrested, never even gotten a traffic ticket.” She looked at Kantana pleadingly. “People like me don’t commit murder!”

Kantana shook his head sadly. “All kinds of people commit murder, mademoiselle.”

Dana couldn’t think of a response. She sat immobile before him as Kantana rose slowly and spoke to her in soft tones.

“And now, mademoiselle, I shall ask my aide to escort you to our local jail. There, we shall do all in our power to make you comfortable.”

* * *

STRANGELY, no one was around when the American was taken away. But I was watching. I suspect that everyone was watching.

Dana’s being with Louis that night had been a stroke of luck, and hiding the blowgun in her room had been an impulsive but brilliant decision. It put all the focus on her and away from the real reason behind his murder.

She’d been easy for me to set up. She knew no one; she had no connections. Justice moved slowly in the Congo, and someday she might be found innocent. But by then it wouldn’t matter. My game would be over.