Vulture Is a Patient Bird

Chapter Four

Armo Shalik returned to his suite at 08.30 hrs. on Monday morning. He was met by Sherborn who reported that Fennel was in Paris. He explained the circumstances while Shalik sat at his desk, glowering at him.

“I hope I did right, sir. Had I know where to contact you, I would, of course, have consulted you.”

The fact that Shalik had had an unsatisfactory week-end with a call girl somewhere in the country, and he had no intention of advertising this fact to Sherborn, increased his rage.

“Well, he’s gone. He said nothing about what he thought of the Kahlenberg set-up?”

“No, sir. He was in and out like a rocket.”

Shalik had a feeling this was going to be a black Monday. Had he known that the three tapes, recording the details of his plan to steal the Borgia ring had already arrived on Max Kahlenberg’s desk, he would have considered this Monday to be a disaster, but he didn’t know.

Irritated and short tempered, he presided over the 09.30 hr. meeting, explaining to Gaye, Garry and Ken Jones that Fennel had had to leave and was now in Paris.

“There is no need to go into details,” he said. “Mr. Fennel left so hurriedly he was unable to tell me his opinion about Kahlenberg’s security measures. I trust he will be able to tell you when you all meet at the Rand International hotel. As I have a busy morning, there is no useful purpose served in prolonging this meeting.” He looked at Garry. “You have studied the maps I gave you?”

“Yes… no trouble,” Garry said. “I’ll get there.”

“Well, then the operation is now in your hands. I have done my best to make it easy for you. It is now up to you. You will be leaving tonight, and you will arrive at Johannesburg tomorrow morning.” He paused, hesitated, then went on, “It is only fair to warn you that Fennel is a dangerous criminal, but absolutely necessary if this operation is to succeed.” He looked directly at Garry. “You appear able to take care of yourself, so I will ask you also to take care of Miss Desmond.”

“That will be my pleasure,” Garry said quietly.

“Oh, Armo!” Gaye said impatiently. “You know I can well look after myself. What are you fussing about?”

“Men fuss over beautiful women. I am no exception,” Shalik said, lifting his fat shoulders. Again he looked directly at Garry who nodded. “Well, bon voyage and success, Sherborn will give you your tickets and all the necessary details.”

When the three had gone, Shalik looked for his list of appointments which Natalie always left on his desk. He couldn’t find it. Again, he had a feeling that this Monday was going to be more than tiresome. Angrily, he went into her room. That she was not sitting at her desk as she had always sat for the past three years startled him. He looked at his watch. The time was 10.00 hrs. Returning to his office, he rang for Sherborn.

“Where is Miss Norman?”

“I have no idea, sir,” Sherborn returned indifferently. Shalik glared at him.

“Then find out! She may be ill. Call her flat!”

The buzzer of the telephone sounded. Impatiently, Shalik waved to Sherborn to take the call.

Sherborn picked up the receiver and said in his pompous voice, “Mr. Shalik’s residence.” There was a pause, then in a voice suddenly off-key, he said, “Who? What did you say?”

Shalik looked angrily at him, then stiffened for Sherborn had lost colour and there was alarm in his eyes.

“Hold on.”

“What is it?”

“Sergeant Goodyard of the Special Branch is asking to speak to you, sir.”

The two men looked at each other. Shalik’s mind flew to those three dangerous currency transactions he had recently made when he had moved some nine hundred thousand pounds out of England. Could Scotland Yard have possibly got on to that? He felt his hands turn moist.

Steadying his voice and not looking at Sherborn, he said, “Tell him to come up.”

Three minutes later, Sherborn opened the door of the suite to be confronted by a large, heavily-built man with probing eyes, a mouth like a fly trap and a jaw like the prow of a ship.

“Come in, sir,” Sherborn said, stepping aside. “Mr. Shalik will see you immediately.”

Sergeant Goodyard moved into the room. He stared at Sherborn, then lifted heavy eyebrows.

“Why, hello George… I thought you were dead.”

“No, sir,” Sherborn said, sweat on his face.

“A pity. You keeping out of trouble?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sergeant Goodyard surveyed the outer room with a critical eye.

“You’ve found a nice little nest here, haven’t you, George? Better than Pentonville I dare say.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherborn opened the door to Shalik’s office.

After staring at him for a long moment, Goodyard walked into the impressively luxurious room.

Shalik glanced up. He regarded the police officer as he came slowly to the desk.

“Sergeant Goodyard?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shalik waved him to a chair.

“Sit down, sergeant. What is it?”

Goodyard settled himself in the chair and looked stonily at Shalik who felt the unease that all guilty people feel when under police scrutiny, although his face remained expressionless.

“I believe Miss Natalie Norman works for you?”

Surprised, Shalik nodded.

“That is right. She hasn’t come in this morning. Has something happened to her?”

“She died Saturday night,” Goodyard told him in his flat, cop voice. “Suicide.”

Shalik flinched. He had a horror of death. For some moments he remained motionless, then his quick, callous mind became alive. Who was he going to find to replace her? Who was now going to look after him? The fact that she was dead meant nothing to him. The fact that he had relied on her for the past three years to arrange his social and business life meant a lot.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He reached for a cigar and paused to clip the end. Was there any reason?”

What a bastard! Goodyard thought, but his cop face revealed none of his disgust.

“That is why I am here, sir. I hoped you could tell me.”

Shalik lit the cigar and let the rich smelling smoke roll out of his

mouth. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I know nothing about Miss Norman… nothing at all. I have always found her an efficient worker. She has been with me for three years.” He leaned back in his executive chair and looked directly at Goodyard. “I am a busy man, Sergeant. It is impossible for me to take much — if any — interest in the people who work for me.”

Goodyard felt in his overcoat pocket and produced a small object which he laid in front of Shalik on the white blotter. “Would you know what that is, sir?”

Shalik frowned at the thick paper clip: the kind that is used to clip together heavy legal documents.

“Obviously a paper clip,” he said, curtly. “I hope you have reason for asking me such a question, Sergeant. You are taking up my valuable time.”

“Oh, yes, I have a reason,” Goodyard was unperturbed by Shalik’s sharp note. “I understand, Mr. Shalik, that you are engaged in many transactions about which rival companies could be interested.”

Shalik’s face hardened. “Surely that is no business of yours?”

“No, sir, but it could explain this object here,” and Goodyard tapped the paper clip.

“Just what do you mean?”

“This apparent paper clip is a highly sensitive microphone which is illegal to possess and which is used only by authorized bodies. In other words, sir, this gadget is only used in espionage work.”

Shalik stared at the paper clip, feeling a sudden rush of cold blood up his spine.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“This paper clip was found in Miss Norman’s flat,” Goodyard explained. “Fortunately the district detective investigating her death was smart enough to recognize what it was. It was passed to the special branch. That is why I am here.”

Shalik licked his dry lips as he said, “I know nothing about it.”

“Have you seen it before?”

“I don’t think so… how can I tell?” Controlling a feeling of panic, Shalik waved to a pile of documents on his desk, each held together with big paper clips, but none quite as big as the clip lying on his blotter. “It is possible… I don’t know.”

“To use this microphone successfully,” Goodyard said, picking up the microphone and putting it in his pocket, “a special taperecorder is required. Could I examine Miss Norman’s desk?”

“Of course.” Shalik got to his feet and led the way into Natalie’s office. “That is her desk.”

Goodyard’s search was quick and thorough. He also looked into the many filing cabinets and into the closet where Natalie used to hang her coat.

“No…” He turned to Shalik. “Have you any reason to believe that Miss Norman was spying on you?”

“Certainly not.”

“You know nothing about her private life? I understand she had a young man living with her. Several people in her building have seen him entering her flat. Would you know who he is?”

Shalik’s face showed his astonishment.

“I can scarcely believe that… still, if you say so. No, I know nothing about her.”

“Further inquiries will be made, sir. I shall want to see you again.”

“I am usually here.”

Goodyard made for the door, then paused.

“I don’t know if you are aware that your servant is George Sherborn who has served six years for forgery.”

Shalik’s face was expressionless.

“Yes, I know. Sherborn is a reformed character. I am very satisfied with him.”

Goodyard’s bleak, cop eyes stared at him.

“Do they ever reform?” he asked and left.

Shalik sat down at his desk. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his damp hands while he thought.

Had the microphone ever been on his desk?

Suppose it had? Had that white faced bitch been recording his transactions? He thought of the dangerous currency deals. Then there was the information given him by the P.A. to the Chancellor of the Exchequer which had netted four of his clients fortunes. There was the merger leak he had got from a typist frantic for money. The list was endless. If she had planted the microphone on his desk, how many of his deals had been taped? There was also the Kahlenberg affair. Had she recorded that? He screwed his handkerchief into a ball, his face vicious. Where was the tape-recorder? Maybe, he thought, someone had got at her and she had only been halfconvinced. Maybe, he thought, she had taken the microphone and had second thoughts about taking the tape-recorder. She could have felt soiled. She was a neurotic type. Maybe she had decided to kill herself rather than to betray him. But, suppose she had recorded the conversation he had had with the four who were going after the Borgia ring? Suppose the tapes were already on their way to Kahlenberg?

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the opposite wall while his mind worked swiftly.

Should he warn them?

He considered the risk. The three men were expendable. He would be sorry to lose Gaye Desmond. He had taken a lot of trouble to find her, but, after all, he told himself, Gaye wasn’t the only woman in the world. If he did warn them that the operation might already be blown, wouldn’t they back out? His fee for regaining the ring was to be $500,000 plus expenses. He grimaced. It was too large a sum to give up because of four people. In a situation like this, he told himself, he must keep his nerve and gamble that this dead bitch hadn’t recorded what was said.

After more thought, he decided to say nothing and to wait.

He reached for his mail and because he had a trained mind, a few minutes later, he had completely dismissed Goodyard’s visit and had dismissed the thought that Kahlenberg could know that he was to lose the Borgia ring.

Charles Burnett sailed majestically into his office. He had lunched well on smoked salmon and duck in orange sauce and was feeling well fed and satisfied with himself.

His secretary handed him a coded cable, telling. him it had arrived a few minutes ago.

“Thank you, Miss Morris,” Burnett said, stifling a small belch. “I’ll attend to it.”

He sat down at his desk and unlocked a drawer. From it he took Kahlenberg’s code book. A few minutes later, he was reading:

Pleased. Visitors will receive exceptionally warm welcome. Have bought 20,000 Honeywell for your Swiss account. K.

Burnett asked Miss Morris to give him the day’s quotation on Honeywell. She told him the share had moved up three points.

Burnett was feeling extremely satisfied when ex-Inspector Parkins came on the line.

“I thought you should know, sir, that Mr. Shalik’s secretary, Natalie Norman, was found dead in her flat this morning… suicide.”

Burnett was unable to speak for some seconds.

“Are you there, sir?”

He pulled himself together. So he had been right: she had looked mental: he had been sure of it.

“Why should you imagine, Parkins, that I could be interested?” he asked, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice.

“Well, sir, this young tearaway, Daz Jackson was seeing a lot of her. I thought possibly you should be told, but if I have made a mistake, then I apologize.”

Burnett drew in a deep, slow breath.

“So Jackson visited her… very odd. Will he be involved?”

“I doubt it. Jackson left for Dublin on Saturday night. The police do have his description. Still, Dublin is a good place for him to be.”

“Yes. Well, thank you, Parkins… interesting.” Burnett could almost see Parkins’ foxy face and the expectant hope in his little eyes. “There will be an additional credit in your account,” and he hung up.

He sat for a long moment, thinking. He remembered the expensive microphone left in Natalie’s flat. For some seconds, he worried about it, then he assured himself no one would recognize it and it would be thrown away with her other rubbish.

Parkins’ call, however, had spoilt his afternoon.

The lobby of the Rand International hotel was crowded with large, noisy American tourists who had just arrived off a bus from which assorted luggage was already spewing.

Wrapped in transparent raincovers, they milled around, shouting to each other, completely oblivious to the uproar they were creating. The lobby was shattered by cries of: “Joe… you seen my bag?” “Goddamn this rain… where’s the sun?” “For God’s sake, Martha, you’re only exciting yourself. The luggage isn’t all out yet.” “Hey, Momma… the guy wants our passports!” and so on and so on. America had taken over the Rand International for some ear splitting moments while the white and the coloured staff coped with the invasion.

Sitting near the breakfast-room with a view of all this commotion, Lew Fennel watched sourly.

Rain fell steadily. The Bantus, sheltering under umbrellas, paused to stare through the glass doors of the hotel at the confusion going on in the lobby. Having stared, they grinned and moved on, splay footed, the men in shabby European dress, the women wearing bright scarves over their heads and bright dresses that set off their colour.

Fennel sucked at his cigarette and watched the last of the American party, still screaming to each other, whisked away in the lifts. He had been in Johannesburg now for thirty-six hours. He had had a nervous half day in Paris before catching the plane to South Africa. Now, for the first time for over a month, he felt relaxed and safe. Moroni and the police were far away.

He looked at his watch, then shifted his heavy body more comfortably in the chair.

A black Cadillac drew up outside the hotel and Fennel got to his feet as he saw Gaye’s tawny head emerge as she ran under the cover of the hotel’s canopy.

Ten minutes later, the three were with him in the small sitting- room of his suite on the eighth floor of the hotel.

Fennel was in an amiable and expansive mood.

“I guess you all want to rest,” he said as he served drinks from the refrigerator, “but before you go, I’d like to fill you in with what we can expect… okay?”

Garry eased his heavy shoulders. The fourteen hour flight had cramped his muscles. He looked at Gaye.

“Do you want to listen or do we take a bath first?”

“We listen,” Gaye said, leaning back on the settee. She took a sip of the gin and tonic Fennel had given her. “I’m not all that dead.”

Fennel’s eyes narrowed. So Edwards was already taking a proprietory interest in the woman he had mentally reserved for himself.

“Well, make up your minds!” he said, his temper rising. “Do you or don’t you want to hear?”

“I said yes,” Gaye said, her cool eyes surveying him. “What is it?”

“Those invoices Shalik gave me. It puts us right in the photo.” Fennel drank a little of his whisky and water. “I now know the museum must be underground. A lift complete with all the works was delivered to Kahlenberg’s place and as the house is on one floor, the answer to the lift is the museum is under the house. Get it?”

“Keep going,” Garry said.

“Listed in the invoices are six television close-circuit sets and one monitor. That tells me there are six rooms in the museum and there is one guard watching the monitor, probably somewhere in the house. By pressing buttons, the guard can survey each of the six rooms, but only one at the time.” Fennel lit a cigarette, then went on, “I know this system. The weakness is that the guard could fall asleep, he could read a book without watching the monitor or he could leave to go to the toilet. But we must find out if he does all or any of these things and if he is on duty at night. That’s your job to find out,” and Fennel pointed his stubby finger at Garry.

Garry nodded.

“The door to the museum is listed on the invoice. It is of massive steel. I worked for Bahlstrom so I know about their equipment. The door has a time lock on it. You set it at a certain time and set the counter dial at another time and no one on earth except Bahlstroms can open the door between these two times.” Fennel grinned. “Except me. I know how to handle that time lock. I helped to build it.

Now we come to something you will have to take care of.” He was talking directly at Garry.

“The lift… this is a tricky one. We will do the job at night. What I want to know is if the lift is out of action during the night. By that, I mean is the electricity cut. If the lift doesn’t work at night I don’t see how the hell we are getting to the museum.”

“Let’s be pessimistic,” Garry said. “Suppose the juice is cut off?”

“It’s up to you to turn it on or we’re sunk.”

Garry grimaced.

“There’s always the chance there could be stairs as well as the lift.”

“Could be.” Fennel nodded. “That too you have to find out. It’s your job to find out as much as you can once you’re in. Another thing you will have to tell me is how I get in… door or window? Again this is up to you. All the dope you collect you give to me over the two-way radio so I’ll know what to be ready for.”

“If the dope can be got, I’ll get it.”

Fennel finished his drink.

“If you don’t get it, we don’t do the job… it’s as simple as that.”

Gaye got to her feet. She looked sensationally lovely in the sky blue cotton dress she was wearing: a dress that clung to her figure. The three men watched her.

“Well, I’ll leave you and take a tub. I want some sleep. I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane.”

She nodded to them and left the room. Garry stretched and yawned.

“Me too… unless you want me for anything else?”

“No.” Fennel looked at Ken. “How about the equipment? Have you got that lined up?”

“I think so. I’ll take a bath and go check. A friend of mine is organizing it for me. I sent him a cable from London telling him what we want. I’ll go over there and see how far he’s got. Do you want to come with me?”

“Why not? Okay, I’ll wait here for you.”

Garry and Ken went along the corridor to their rooms. They were all on the eighth floor: each had a small suite with an air conditioner and a view of the city.

“Well, see you,” Garry said, pausing at his door. “This could be a tricky one.”

Ken grinned. Garry had now learned that Ken was an incurable optimist.

“You never know… could work out fine. Me for the tub,” and he went off whistling to his room.

An hour later, he returned to Fennel’s room. Fennel had been punishing the whisky and looked a little flushed.

“Shall we go?” Ken asked, leaning against the doorway.

“Yeah.” Fennel got to his feet and the two men walked along the corridor to the lifts.

“This pal of mine runs a garage on Plein Street,” Ken said as the lift descended. “It’s just across the way. We can walk.”

They pushed their way through another consignment of American tourists who had just arrived. The noise they were making made both men wince.

“What makes an American so noisy?” Ken asked good humouredly. “Do they imagine everyone around is stone deaf?” Fennel grunted.

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe they weren’t taught as kids to keep their goddamn traps shut.”

They paused under the canopy of the hotel and surveyed the rain sweeping Bree Street.

“If it’s going to rain like this in the Drakensberg Range we’re in for a hell of a time,” Ken said, turning up his jacket collar. “Come on… may as well start getting wet… it’ll be good practice.”

Their heads bent against the driving rain, the two men walked briskly across to Plein Street.

Sam Jefferson, the owner of the garage, a tall, thin elderly man with a pleasant, freckled face greeted them.

“Hi Ken! Had a good trip?”

Ken said the trip was fine and introduced Fennel. Jefferson lost some of his sunny smile as he shook hands. He was obviously a little startled at the cold, hard expression on Fennel’s face. Fennel wasn’t his kind of people.

“I got all the stuff and it’s there laid out for you,” he went on turning to Ken. “Take a look. If there’s anything I’ve forgotten, let me know. Excuse me now. I’ve got a gear box in my hair.” Nodding, he went off across the big garage to where two Bantus were staring vacantly at a jacked up Pontiac.

Ken led the way to a small, inner garage where a Land Rover was parked. A Bantu, sitting on his haunches and scratching his ankle got slowly to his feet and gave Ken a wide, white toothy grin.

“All okay, boss,” he said, and Ken shook hands with him. “This is Joe,” he said to Fennel. “Sam and he have collected all the stuff we need.”

Fennel had no time for coloured people. He glowered at the smiling Bantu, grunted and turned away. There was an awkward pause, then Ken said, “Well, Joe, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The Bantu crossed to the Land Rover and pulled off the tarpaulin that covered the bonnet. “I got it fixed like you said, boss.”

Welded to the front of the radiator was a drum between two steel supports. Around the drum was wound a long length of thin

steel cable. Ken examined it, then nodded his satisfaction.

“What the hell’s that for?” Fennel demanded, regarding the drum.

“It’s a winch,” Ken explained. “We’re going over some very sticky roads and we could easily get bogged down. When there’s heavy rain, the roads over the Drakensberg can be hell. This winch will drag us out without us breaking our backs.” He found a small yacht anchor lying on the floor of the Land Rover. “See this? We get stuck, and all we have to do is to slam this anchor into a tree root and winch ourselves out.”

“The roads going to be that bad?”

“Brother! You have no idea. We have quite a trip ahead of us.

Fennel scowled.

“Those other two have it the easy way… flying in, huh?”

“I don’t know so much about that. If one of the fans falls off, they land in the jungle and that will be that. I’d rather drive than fly in this country.”

“Boss…” Joe, still smiling, but uncomfortable in Fennel’s presence, pulled off a tarpaulin that covered a long trestle table standing away from the Land Rover. “You want to check this stuff?”

The two men moved over to the equipment laid out. There were four jerrycans for water, another five for gas, four sleeping bags, four powerful electric torches with spare batteries, two six foot steel perforated strips for getting out of mud, a collapsible tent, two wooden cases and a large carton.

“With luck, I reckon we’ll take five days in and four days out to do the job,” Ken said, patting the two wooden cases. “We have enough canned food to last us that time.” He tapped the carton. “That’s booze: four Scotch, two gin and twenty-four quarts of beer. I have a Springfield, a 12 bore and a .22. There’s plenty of game where we are going. You like guinea-fowl? Impala? Ever tried a saddle of Impala done over a slow fire and served with Chilli sauce?” He grinned and rolled his eyes. “It’s marvellous!”

“How about medical supplies?” Fennel asked.

“In the Land Rover… complete medical chest. I took a safari first-aid course a while ago. I can handle anything from a snake bite to a broken leg.”

“Looks like you’ve taken care of it all.” Fennel lit a cigarette and let smoke drift down his nostrils. “Then all we have to take is our own personal kit?”

“That’s it… we travel light… just a change.”

“I’ve got my tool bag.” Fennel rested his fat back against the Land Rover. “It’s heavy, but I can’t do without it.”

“Well, so long as you can haul it.”

Fennel cocked his head on one side.

“We drive, don’t we?”

“We might have to walk some of the way. Even with this winch the road up to Kahlenberg’s place could sink us and if it does, we walk.”

“How about taking the nigger along?”

“Look, friend, drop that.” Ken’s face had hardened. “We don’t talk about niggers here. We talk about natives. Bantus or nonEuropeans but not niggers.”

“Who the hell cares?”

“I do, and if we’re going to get along, you will care too.” Fennel hesitated then shrugged.

“Okay, okay, so what? What’s wrong with taking the native, the Bantu, the non-European bastard along with us to carry the goddamn bag?”

Ken regarded him, his dislike plain.

“No. He could talk his head off when he gets back. I’ve a friend of mine who’s joining us at our camp at Mainville. He worked with me when I was on a game reserve. He’s coming with us. He is a Kikuyu and a marvellous tracker. Without him, we would never get there. He’s out at Kahlenberg’s estate now finding a way through the guards and let me tell you there are around three hundred Zulus guarding the estate, but I’ll bet when we meet at Mainville, he’ll have found a way through them, but he doesn’t carry anyone’s stuff but his own. Just get that into your skull.”

Fennel squinted at him through his cigarette smoke.

“What is he… black?”

“He is a Kikuyu… that makes him coloured.”

“A friend?”

“One of my best friends.” Ken stared hard at Fennel. “If that’s so difficult for you to believe let me tell you the Bantus out here are damn good friends when you get to know them and damn good people.”

Fennel shrugged.

“This is your country… not mine. Suppose we go back to the hotel? This goddamn rain is giving me a thirst.”

“You go on. I’ve got to settle up for all this stuff and get it loaded. Suppose we all have dinner together? There’s a good restaurant next to the hotel. We can iron out anything that needs ironing out. We could get off tomorrow.”

“Okay… see you,” and Fennel left the garage and headed for the hotel.

Ken watched him go, frowning. Then shrugging, he moved over to where Sam Jefferson was working on the Pontiac.

They all met at the Checkmate restaurant which is part of the Rand International Hotel a little after 20.30 hrs. As was her privilege, Gaye was the last to arrive, wearing a lemon-coloured cotton dress and making every male eye in the restaurant stare at her with that hungry look males have for really beautiful women.

Fennel eyed her as she slid into her chair and felt sweat break out down his fat back. He had known many women in his life, but none to compare with her. He felt a white hot surge of desire go through him and it so shook him that he purposely dropped his serviette so he could bend, grope for it while he forced the desire out of his face.

“Well, what are we going to eat?” Garry asked.

They were all hungry and chose sea food on the broche and breaded veal with french fry.

“How’s it been going?” Garry asked Ken. He was aware of Fennel’s tenseness and glanced at his flushed face, then looked away.

“All under control. We have everything organized now. We could leave tomorrow if that suits you two.”

“Why not?” Garry looked at Gaye for confirmation and she nodded.

“The sooner we’re off, the easier for us it will be. The rains have started. There is a chance the rain hasn’t reached Drakensberg yet, but if it has, Fennel and I will have quite a trip. So, if it’s all right with you, we will leave at 08.00 hrs. tomorrow morning. We drive in the Land Rover… it won’t be too comfortable as we’re pretty loaded. We have around three hundred kilometres to our camp at Mainville.” The sea food was served and when the waiter had gone away, Ken went on, “Mainville is about four hundred kilometres from Kahlenberg’s place. The chopper will be at Mainville. The airlift won’t take long unless anything goes wrong. You two will stay in camp for a day while Fennel and I go on by road. Then you take off. We’ll be in touch with you on the two-way radio. I’ve tested them… they’re good. We’ll reach Mainville just after noon with luck. Fennel and I will start around 05.00 hrs. the following morning. You will take off around 10.00 hrs. the following morning. You should arrive at Kahlenberg’s place in an hour or so. You don’t want to be too early. How does it sound?”

“Sounds fine,” Garry said. “And the chopper? How about service and gas?”

“All that’s taken care of. You’ll have enough gas to take her in and bring her out. I have a guarantee she will be fully serviced. It’s up to you to satisfy yourself she is okay, of course, but from what I’ve been told, she’ll be there waiting for you and ready to go.”

“What’s Mainville like?” Gaye asked, laying down her knife and fork.

Ken grinned. “A horse and buggy town. I have the camp organized five miles out of town in the bush.”

They began eating the veal which they enjoyed. They discussed further details of the operation. Both Gaye and Garry were aware that Fennel had little to say except to grunt over his food and keep looking at Gaye. At the end of the meal, they had coffee while Ken talked. He was an easy and interesting talker and he amused them.

“You’ll have fun driving to Mainville,” he said. “I won’t be going on the highway on the last lap and you’ll see game… warthogs, Impala, waterbuck, vervet monkeys and so on. I’ll give you the dope on them when we see them if you’re interested. I was once a game warden on a swank reserve… taking people around in a Land Rover to spot game.”

“What made you give it up?” Gaye asked. “I should have thought it was a lovely life.”

Ken laughed.

“You would, wouldn’t you? Nothing the matter with the animals, but the clients finally got me down. You can’t expect to go into the bush and just find animals waiting for you. You have to be patient. There are days, especially in this season, when you can drive for miles without seeing a thing. The clients always gripe… blaming me. After a couple of years I got fed up with it. There was one client who really bore down on me. Okay, he had no luck. It was the rainy season, and he wanted to photograph a buffalo. He had a thousand dollar bet with a pal back in the States that he would bring the photo back… no buffaloes. We drove for hours hunting for them, but no luck, so he took it out on me.” Ken grinned. “I hauled off and busted his jaw… got eighteen months in jail for it so when I came out, I quit.”

Fennel who had been listening impatiently, broke in, “Well, I don’t know what you two guys are going to do, but I’m inviting Miss Desmond to come along with me and take a look at the nightspots.” He stared directly at Gaye, his face set. “How about it?”

There was a slight pause. Garry looked quickly at Fennel’s flushed face and then at Gaye who smiled, completely relaxed.

“That is nice of you, Mr. Fennel, but excuse me. If I’m going to get up so early, I need my sleep.” She got to her feet. “Good night. See you all in the morning,” and she made her way, followed by male stares, out of the restaurant.

Fennel sat back in his chair, his face pale, his eyes burning. “Some brush-off,” he snarled. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

Ken got to his feet.

“I’ll fix the bill and then I’m going to bed,” and he walked over to the cash desk.

Garry said quietly, “Take it easy. The girl’s tired. If you want to go somewhere I’ll come with you.”

Fennel didn’t appear to hear. He sat there, his eyes slightly mad, his face now getting back some colour. He got heavily to his feet and walked out of the restaurant and to the lift. He was shaking with frustrated rage.

All right, you bitch, he was thinking as the lift doors swung open. I’ll fix you! Just let me get you alone for ten minutes and I’ll fix you so goddamn fast you won’t know what’s hit you.

He reached his room, slammed the door shut and tore off his clothes. He threw himself down on the bed, his nails biting into the palms of his hands, sweat running down his heavy jowls.

For more than an hour, his lewd mind enacted the things he would do to her when he had her alone, but after a while, the erotic thoughts became exhausted and his mind began to return to normal.

He suddenly remembered what Shalik had said: You will leave Gaye Desmond strictly alone… try something like that with Miss Desmond and I promise you Interpol will receive your dossier from me.

How had Shalik found out about the three killings?

Fennel moved uneasily on the bed. He reached for a cigarette, lit it and stared across the room, lit by the revolving sign across the way.

He was suddenly back in Hong Kong, coming off a junk at Wanchai’s Fenwick Street pier. He had been on a smuggling trip with three of his Chinese friends. They had unloaded a cargo of opium at Chu Lu Kok Island without any trouble and Fennel had $3,000 in his hip pocket. He was due to fly back to England in ten hours. After being cooped up in the stinking junk for six days, he was in need of a woman.

His Chinese friends had told him where to go. He had walked along Gloucester Road amid rickshaws, the fast moving traffic, the fruit vendors and the crowds of noisy Chinese until he had come to the brothel, recommended.

The Chinese girl was small, compact with heavy buttocks which Fennel liked, but she was as animated as a side of beef. She acted merely as a receptacle for his lust and when the unsatisfactory union was over, Fennel, with half a bottle of whisky inside him, dulling his senses, slept, but Fennel only ever slept slightly below the level of unconsciousness. He had always led a dangerous life and had trained himself never to become entirely unconscious, no matter how much he drank. He came awake to find the girl, still naked, her ivory skin lighted by the street light

Coming through the uncurtained window, helping herself from his well stuffed wallet.

Fennel was off the bed and had hit her before he was fully awake. His fist smashed into her face, snapping her head back and she went down, his money falling from her small hand, her eyes rolling back.

Fennel snarled at her, then began to collect the money. It was only when he had thrown on his clothes and had stuffed his wallet into his hip pocket that he realized something was wrong. He bent over the still body and a chill crawled up his spine. He lifted her head by her thick hair and grimaced as the head rolled horribly on the shoulders. His savage, violent blow had broken her neck.

He looked at his watch. He had two hours before he took off for London. He left the room, shutting the door and walked down the stairs to where an old Chinaman was seated at the desk to check clients in and out. He knew he would have to pay for his freedom.

“I’m leaving by junk in twenty minutes,” he lied. “The whore’s dead. What’s it going to cost?”

The yellow wrinkled face showed nothing: a parchment map of old age.

“One thousand dollars,” the old man said. “I have to call the police in an hour,”

Fennel showed his teeth in a savage snarl.

“Old man, I could wring your neck… that’s too much.”

The Chinaman lifted his shoulders.

“Then five hundred dollars and I call the police in half an hour.”

Fennel gave him the thousand dollars. He had been in Hong Kong long enough to know a bargain was a bargain. He had to have at least an hour to get clear and he had got clear.

Lying in his bed, watching the reflected light making patterns on the opposite wall, he remembered the girl. If she had been more responsive, he wouldn’t have hit her so hard. Well, he told himself without conviction, she had deserved what she had got.

The male prostitute he had been unlucky enough to run into in a dirty, evil smelling alley in Istanbul, also got what he deserved. Fennel had come off a ship to spend a few hours in the city before going on to Marseilles. He had brought three kilos of gold from India for a man who was paying well: a fat, elderly Turk who wanted the gold as a bribe. Fennel had done the deal, collected the money and then found a girl to spend the night with. Thinking about her now, Fennel realized she had been smart. She had got him drunk and when the time came for them to share the hotel bed, he had been too drunk to bother with her. He had slept three hours, waking to find her gone, but at least she hadn’t been a thief. Livid with frustrated rage, and nearly sober, Fennel had started back to his ship. Here, in this sleazy alley, he had met a perfumed boy: handsome with liquid black eyes and a sly, insinuating smile, who had importuned him. Fennel had vented his rage on him, smashing his head against the wall, leaving a big red stain where the wall had been dirty white.

A woman, peering out of her window, had seen the act of brutal violence and had begun to scream. Fennel got back to his ship, but it was only when the ship sailed that he considered himself safe.

Fennel often lived with his ghosts. He kept telling himself that the dead had no part in his life, but they persisted in his mind. In moments like this, when he was sexually frustrated, and alone, his past violence kept on intruding.

This third murder haunted him more than the other two. He had been hired by a wealthy Egyptian to open a safe belonging to a merchant to whom the Egyptian had given bonds as security for a big loan. Fennel understood these bonds were forgeries and they could be discovered at any moment: the job was urgent.

He had got into the palatial house easily enough and had settled down in front of the safe to open it. The time was 02.45 hrs. and the household was asleep.

The safe was old-fashioned and Fennel had trouble in opening it. As he finally got the safe door open, his tools scattered around him, the door leading into the room where he was pushed open.

Fennel snapped off his torch, grabbed up a short steel bar with which he had been working and spun around.

A shadowy figure stood in the doorway, then the light went on.

A girl stood in front of Fennel in a nightdress and dressing- gown. She was small, dark with large black eyes and an olive complexion. She could not have been older than ten years of age — in fact she was nine. She stared at Fennel in terror and her mouth began to open to scream. He reached her in two swift strides and slammed the steel bar down on her head.

In that moment of panic, he had had no hesitation about killing her. The blow, as he well knew, was lethal. She had seen him, and if he had merely stunned her, she could have given the police a description of him.

He had snatched the bonds from the safe, bundled his tools together and had left. It was only when he got into his car that he saw blood on one of his hands and became fully aware of what he had done.

Those big, terrified dark eyes often appeared in his dreams. From the newspapers the following day, he learned the child was a deaf-mute. He had tried to convince himself that she was better dead, but when he was alone and in bed, the picture of the child in her nightdress and the look of terror on her face as she tried to scream pricked at what remained of his conscience.

He lay watching the red and blue light from the sign across the way, reflected on the ceiling until finally, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.