The Brass Go-Between

Chapter nineteen

Mbwato and I left Mr. Ulado to look after his two charges while we went downstairs to sample the town-house owner’s Scotch. I carried the suitcase in my right hand. It didn’t seem to weigh as much as it once had and I wondered whether I should count the money, but decided not to because there wasn’t much I could do about it if some were missing — certainly not replace it.

Mbwato mixed two drinks and we sat in the comfortable living room that contained some more pictures, some better than average furniture, and a large number of books. I sat on the couch, Mbwato in the largest chair he could find, which still seemed too small for his bulk.

“So, Mr. St. Ives, what shall I do with our two young friends upstairs?”

“Turn them over to the cops.”

“Do you think they’re sane?”

“The man is, I think. I don’t know about the girl. She seems a little kinky, but maybe it’s like he said, she’s just dumb.”

“Rather coarse, too,” Mr. Mbwato murmured.

“Well, not quite as coarse as a hot curling iron. Tell me something, is Ulado really your torture expert?”

Mbwato chuckled. “Good heavens no, man. Couldn’t you see that he was absolutely petrified? He got the idea from one of your more lurid magazines, I think. Still, it proved quite effective, didn’t it?”

“Suppose they hadn’t talked. Suppose they were stubborn. Would you have used it?”

Mbwato gave me a long, speculative look. “Let me reply in this fashion: would you have tried to stop me?”

I nodded. “I guess so.”

“And you would have succeeded.” He sighed deeply. “The threat was all that was really needed. Their lives have conditioned them to accept quite readily the notion that two black African savages would think nothing of torturing them for hours on end. They have been indoctrinated by their culture to accept this.”

“Too many Tarzan films, huh?” I said.

“I’m not so sure about that. It’s just that if the roles were reversed, neither of them would have had any compunction about using the iron on me or Mr. Ulado. So they quite readily accepted the fact that we would torture them.” He sighed again. “But what to do with them?”

“The cops,” I said.

“Really, Mr. St. Ives.”

“Why not?”

“Could it be done — say — anonymously?”

“Well, you can’t just mail them downtown in a plain wrapper.”

“Could you possibly…”

“Possibly,” I said.

“I would be most grateful.”

“Not as grateful as I am for getting the money back. I haven’t thanked you adequately.”

Mbwato put his drink down on a table and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He studied the carpet. “The money is more important to you than the shield, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. If I return the money to the museum, then they’re right back where they started. I can bow out and that’s the end of it.”

“And that’s what you intend to do tomorrow?” he said.

“No,” I said, “I don’t intend to do that at all.”

He looked up at me. “What then?”

“I intend to get the shield back.”

His eyes widened. Big as saucers, I thought, like the troll’s who lived under the bridge and had a good thing going until Big Billy Goat Gruff came along.

“You know where it is?”

I took a long time before answering. “Possibly,” I said.

“Probably?” he said.

“Yes.”

“My earlier offer still stands, Mr. St. Ives.”

“Forget it,” I said.

“You have a better one?”

“No.”

Mbwato rose and began to pace the floor in long strides. “You’re being most infuriating with your hints and allusions, Mr. St. Ives. You know that, I suppose.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped his pacing and stood before me, bending forward slightly, a huge, very black man whose broad, curiously gentle face was a battleground for hope and despair. Despair seemed to be winning. “I do not mind the personal disgrace that will accompany my failure,” he said. “I hope you understand that; I hope you believe it.”

“I believe it,” I said.

“You realize the importance of the shield — not to me personally, but to my country.”

“You’ve told me about it. Twice, in fact. Maybe three times.”

“Then I need not repeat it.”

“No.”

“Now you say you intend to get the shield back.”

“That’s right.”

“How?”

“Don’t you mean where?” I said.

“All right. Where?”

“I don’t know. I’m still just guessing. All I really know is that I’ll need some help.”

“Is that a request?” Mbwato said softly.

I nodded. I was tired. I wanted to go to bed. My head had started to throb again, worse than before. “You can call it that,” I said.

“When will you need it?”

“Tomorrow at the latest.”

“What do you intend to do with the shield, Mr. St. Ives, return it to the museum?”

“I don’t have it yet. I might not ever have it. As I said, I’m only guessing. The only thing that I really know is I’ve been suckered and I’m not quite sure by whom. Maybe by you. Maybe by the museum or my lawyer or even Lieutenant Demeter and his faithful Sergeant Fastnaught. Maybe it’s all been some kind of gigantic conspiracy that everybody’s been in on except me. Or maybe it’s just that I have a slight concussion and it’s done something to my brain. Turned me a little paranoic.” My head was no longer throbbing; it was pounding and the pain hit at the back of my head where it hadn’t been before.

“No more questions, Mr. Mbwato,” I said. “No more questions because I haven’t got the answers. Right now the only thing I want to do is go home and go to bed. But I can’t even do that because I have to call the cops and hand over your two friends upstairs.” I slumped back on the couch, but it only made my head hurt more. “Can you clear out of here?”

“Yes, of course,” Mbwato said.

“Where can I reach you tomorrow?” I wasn’t looking at him; I had my eyes closed, but that didn’t ease the pain either.

“Here,” he said, “at this number.” He produced one of his ivory-colored cards and scribbled a telephone number on it. He handed it to me and I shoved it into my coat pocket.

“What time do you think you may—”

“I don’t know. I told you I don’t know anything. I’m just guessing. Maybe I won’t call at all. Maybe it’ll all blow up in my face. Bang, like that. Or Boom. Or even bang-boom.”

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. St. Ives?” Mbwato said, and there seemed to be genuine solicitation in his voice, or it could have been that he was just worried about the shield and that I might die on him.

“No,” I said. “I’m not feeling all right. Where’s the phone?”

“At your elbow.”

“So it is,” I said, and because it seemed to sound nice, I said it again. “So it is. Another drink might help, Mr. Mbwato. Another touch of your landlord’s excellent Scotch. And as soon as that is done, I suggest that you gather up Mr. Ulado and flee into the night. Just make sure that our two young friends upstairs are securely bound.”

“Yes,” he said, handing me another drink. “I’ll see to it. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. St. Ives? You don’t seem at all well. I might even say that you look pale, but then I’m no great judge.”

“I’m tiptop,” I said. “Both the tip and the top of my head are about to sail off.”

“I’ll get Mr. Ulado,” he said, and headed for the stairs.

I picked up the phone and dialed Lieutenant Demeter’s number. He answered with his usual “Robbery Squad, Lieutenant Demeter,” but most of the bark and bite were missing.

“How goes the report, Lieutenant?”

“What do you want, St. Ives?”

“A word or two with you. Only a word or two.”

“You drunk?”

“Possibly, possibly. My head is coming off and seems to be sailing around the room.”

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“The two thieves, Lieutenant. I have them bound and gagged. Well, not gagged really, but bound. Yes, bound with strong cord. And the money too. A quarter of a million dollars. I have recovered it. Do you find that interesting?”

There was a silence for a moment and then Demeter said, “Is this a joke, St. Ives?”

“If it were, it wouldn’t be a very good one, would it? No joke. Thieves and money. They’re both here. I thought I’d call before you got too far into your report.”

“Where are you?”

I took another swallow of my drink, a large one. The pain in my head now seemed focused behind my eyes, threatening to push them out of their sockets. I closed them. “In a charming town house on Corcoran Place.”

“The address, goddamnit.”

“Oh, yes.” I gave him the address.

“If this is some kind of a joke—”

“No joke,” I said. “No joke at all.” I hung up.

Mbwato and Ulado came down the stairs and entered the living room. Both now wore coats and ties. Ulado crossed over to me and put some items on the coffee table. “We relieved them of these,” he said. “I thought that they might be evidence — or something like that.” On the coffee table were two switchblade knives, a .38-caliber revolver, and blackjack with a spring handle.

“We’re leaving now, Mr. St. Ives,” Mbwato said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

I waved my empty glass at him. “Another drink to cut the phlegm.”

Ulado hurried forward and took my glass, looking at Mbwato, who nodded. “You need to sleep, Mr. St. Ives,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “For a couple of years.”

“I’ll be anticipating your call tomorrow,” he said as Ulado handed me the fresh drink.

“Man your phone,” I said. “I shall be calling.”

Mr. Mbwato stood by the door to the hall and stared at me. “I hope, Mr. St. Ives, that you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope so, too, Mr. Mbwato,” I said. “I hope so very much.”