The African Poison Murders (7 page)

Vachell examined the building carefully. A ladder led to the second floor and he climbed up it and through a square hole cut in the ceiling boards.

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He found himself standing among withered white pyrethrum flowers, brittle and half shrivelled with heat. The atmosphere was still stifling, and as soon as he got among the pyrethrum he started to sneeze.

Above him were bare timbers and then the unshielded iron of the roof. The ladder was not fixed.

He hauled it up, set it against a tie-beam and climbed up to examine the louvres: long slits on each side of the ridge-beam through which air could come and go.\ By stretching up he could just reach high enough to run his fingers along the corrugated edge. He repeated this all the way along, but he could find no traces of anything recently stuffed into a gap to prevent ventilation of the shed. That was not conclusive, though. He glanced with annoyance at some old sacks thrown into a corner; just the thing for blocking the louvres.

The doctor was standing outside, drawing deep breaths of air. “Can’t stand that Red Sea atmosphere,”

he remarked. “If Munson’d had a weak heart, a sudden change like this might have brought on an attack. But he hadn’t, so far as I know.”

“How about time of death?” Vachell asked.

“Of course, this alters things. It makes it impossible to give a close estimate. All I can say is, he’s not been dead much longer than four hours, even if he lay some time in this heat, and not less than two.”

“That puts it between seven and nine o’clock.

Gives us about an hour; we know he was dead by eight. Another thing, doctor. How about the fumes 63

from these charcoal braziers — could they gas a man to death?”

The doctor looked at the braziers doubtfully through the open door. “If you’ll tell me the composition of charcoal gas I’ll give you a definite answer.

I’m afraid you’ve found a hiatus in my knowledge.

If there’s enough CO in the fumes — there’s certainly some — they could kill a man pretty quickly. And of course he’d be asphyxiated eventually in any case, by the removal of oxygen for combustion of the charcoal and its replacement by C02. But the shed would have to be made pretty well airtight first, and a man couldn’t be overcome so suddenly as to be unable to reach the door.”

“In other words, you’d have to close up the louvres and lock the door.”

“Probably,” the doctor agreed. “But I’m not an authority on gases. You’d better get a book on A.R.P. Well, if that’s all, I’ll be getting along. I’ll have some results from the autopsy this afternoon.”

“Call up the station,” Vachell instructed. “Prettyman will be there.”

The doctor nodded and walked back past the cow-byres towards the house. Vachell relocked the door of the shed and slipped the key into his pocket.

“The next thing,” he remarked, “is to try to check him into that shed. You didn’t see him at all today?”

Corcoran shook his head.

“Where were you?”

“We were sowing some late oats. I went out to 64

set the task, to see the boys started, and then on to the pyrethrum.”

“How did you go? By automobile?”

“No, Uncle Karl wouldn’t have cars used for farm work. I took a pony out. I’d just got back when Jerogi, the head pyrethrum boy, came rushing up and said Uncle Karl was ill — and then I found him in the shed.”

Munson, Vachell learnt, had been found face downwards in the centre of the room, limp and sprawling, but not actually touching any of the braziers. It looked as though he had just crumpled up and pitched forward where he stood. Corcoran and Jerogi had carried him out, thinking he had merely fainted; Corcoran said the body was still warm, but then the heat of the drying-shed, about blood-heat, would have kept it so. Only after he had thrown cold water in his uncle’s face did he think of feeling for the heart, and then realize that first aid had come too late. The native had run away in a panic and Corcoran had fetched a reluctant Christian headman to help him carry the body into the house. He had broken the news to Mrs Munson, and gone straight off to Karuna to notify the police.

Vachell listened with a wrinkled forehead, rubbing the lobe of one ear between finger and thumb, searching in the curiously uninformative information for something to catch hold of. No one seemed to have seen Munson go into the shed. It would be a tedious business, questioning all the farm boys. When they reached the lawn in front of 65

the homestead buildings he remarked: “You had a visitor last night. Naturally you’ll understand we have to check on all your uncle’s movements in the last few days. What did this guy Wendtland want?”

Corcoran stiffened at once, and his face went blank. Vachell saw the warning signals out.

“Wendtland?” Corcoran said it too casually. “Oh, yes, he was here for dinner. I don’t suppose he wanted anything, in particular.”

“Just a social call?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did Wendtland often drop in for a meal?”

Corcoran hesitated. “It depends what you mean by often. He did come sometimes.”

“When was he last here?”

“Good Lord, I don’t know.” There was an edge of impatience in his voice. “I don’t keep count of these things. It was some time ago. Whatever has that got to do with my uncle’s death?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Vachell’s voice had hardened and his tone was brusque. “Can you remember the last occasion Wendtland was here?”

“No, I can’t.” Corcoran’s face was flushed and his eyes bright. “And I don’t see what it’s got to do with you. Can’t my uncle have his friends to dinner without having to notify the police?”

“So Wendtland was your uncle’s friend. That’s interesting, very. It’s a shame two such old friends should have to quarrel the night before your uncle died.”

The shot in the dark scored a bull. Corcoran’s 66

expression changed from anger to alarm. The hostility died out of his eyes and a look that Vachell could only regard as one of pleading took its place.

“They didn’t quarrel, really,” he said quickly. “It was only a disagreement over a business affair. It wasn’t serious at all. Uncle Karl used to be leader of the Bund and Wendtland only wanted him to …” Corcoran broke off abruptly and stepped back, suspicion in his eyes. “Who told you they quarrelled?

I don’t believe you … My God, if you’ve been trying to trap me, I’ll….”

He left the end of the sentence unsaid. A car rounded the corner of the livingroom suddenly and pulled up with a squeal of brakes. It had been coming too fast, and rocked when it was jerked to a halt. A man Vachell had never seen before was at the wheel. He was bulky and bareheaded with a fair skin and a round, heavy face. When he jumped out of the driver’s seat and came towards them Vachell’s first impression was that a pink seal was approaching, sleek and buoyant. The man’s knees and arms were burnt a brick red.

Vachell looked at Corcoran with raised eyebrows, and the young man glared back with an expression of mingled humour and chagrin.

“Hermann Wendtland,” he said.

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Wendtland was very polite. He clicked his heels — Vachell wondered whether he wore knee-long, close-fitting boots in order to do this with an air —

and bowed and shook hands very formally, smiling broadly at the same time. He had a florid open face, small eyes, and was smoking a small Dutch cigar.

“I am pleased,” he said. “But it is not good that I come now, no? Bad news is here.”

“You’ve heard already, then?”

“Yes, captain, the news I in Karuna heard. I go to the town, I take to the shop a part of my plough to make repaired, I am told: Today is bad news. An accident to Mr Munson has occurred, Mr Munson is perhaps already dead.’ So my car I take, quickly I come to bring Mrs Munson my sympathy. Mr and Mrs Munson, they are very old friends; I grieve with Mrs Munson, I come to offer my condolences, my help, all I can do.” He waved an arm, and his eyes were on Corcoran’s face. He had stressed the phrase, “very old friends” so much that Vachell knew they held a message.

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“My aunt will be awfully grateful,” Corcoran began. “She’ll want to see you, I’m sure. May I take you….”

“Mrs Munson is sick and she’s not to be disturbed,” Vachell said shortly. “I’m sorry, Mr Wendtland, but you can’t see her today.”

Wendtland’s small eyes narrowed and the smile died on his face. “So! That she is sick is bad. But I think, captain, to see me she will wish. It is good for friends to come when there is grief. I will stay only a few moments, I do….”

“Doctor’s orders,” Vachell snapped. “You can’t see Mrs Munson today.”

Wendtland pitched his cigar to one side and stepped forward, fists clenched. Vachell was tall, but Wendtland had a two-inch advantage, a chest as thick as a barrel, and round muscular arms.

“You will tell me where is your authority….”

“Don’t be a fool,” Corcoran said. “I’ll tell my aunt you came. Everything’s all right at present, Wendtland. I can give her a message, if you like.”

Wendtland relaxed, and nodded his head. “AcA, so. That is best, perhaps. I another day will come.

Tell her, please….”

Vachell could feel the eyes of both men watching him for a sign. He pulled out his cigarette pack, extracted one slowly, and felt for a match, keeping a poker-player’s face. It was Wendtland who decided to take the risk. He gave a stiff little bow, and said: “Ich bedaure lebhaft uber den Tot von Herr Munson zu horenV

SB 69

There was a slight pause. Vachell did not look up, but felt Corcoran’s eyes on his face. Then Corcoran said:

“Die Angelegenheit ist ganz in Ordnung. Die Witwe hat bekommen die Sache welche She zu haben wunschen.”

There was no pause this time. Wendtland answered quickly: “She muss dieselbe heute his zum Rechtsanwalt in der Stadt bringen. Ich werde den Artikel von dort nehmen. Unter keinen Umst’anden muss man denselben hier f indent

“Ich werde ihr die Mitteilung erteilen^ Corcoran said.

Wendtland clicked his heels again, bowed, and held out his hand. His expression was unquestionably a smirk.

“Goodbye, Herr Captain,” he said. “I will not your patient disturb. I rejoice to see the care which to the bereaved is given. Like your so famous London police, the Chania police do not sleep.”

“Aufwiedersehen,^ Vachell said. He was gratified to see a cloud of alarm pass swiftly over Wendtland’s face, but he was afraid the accent wouldn’t do. That was the only phrase of German he knew. “I have a feeling, Herr Wendtland, that we shall meet again.”

“That I hope, Herr Captain.” His pink face was wreathed in smiles as he climbed into the drivingseat, and he waved enthusiastically as the car swung out of sight around the livingroom hut.

“Taking no risks, I see,” Corcoran observed. He was smiling — a pleasant, spontaneous sort of grin.

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“You had no right to do that, of course. But I can’t say I blame you. Wendtland does get one’s back up a bit.”

“Thanks,” Vachell said dryly. Corcoran was right; he had no authority. Mrs Munson would get the message, whatever it was. He glanced at his wristwatch and did a mental calculation. Wendtland must have passed the doctor on the road. News had a way of leaking out quickly, but even so it was barely possible that the story of Munson’s death should already be current in Karuna. And Wendtland, he recollected, lived at over an hour’s journey from the town.

“You called Wendtland from Karuna when you went to notify the police,” he observed, more as a statement than a question.

“Preposterous,” Corcoran retorted, but without any heat. “Why on earth should I do that?”

“Just to cement a very old friendship.”

It took a lot of patient questioning to get Munson’s last movements straightened out. His personal boy was a young native called Mwogi with an intelligent face, and teeth filed into needlepoints after the custom of his tribe. Vachell felt inclined to trust the boy’s word, because when asked why he worked for such a bad master he grinned and replied: “There is so much land that I can keep all my goats here without trouble. Also, I can keep the goats of my sister’s son and my father’s brother’s son’s halfbrother; and also many cattle die, so that we often get meat.”

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Mwogi himself had brewed the tea that he had taken to his master. No one else had come near it, or handled the packet at all, he said. The cup, as Vachell expected, had already been washed up and put away. Mrs Munson issued a pound once every two months, Mwogi explained, for early morning tea; it had to last out the time. The packet was about half full. Vachell took charge of it, and Mwogi remarked:

“The mistress will be very, very angry when she hears that you have taken away her tea.”

Munson had woken as usual and poured the tea while Mwogi drew the curtains and took his master’s working-clothes out of a drawer. Vachell was curious about the old shoes on the dead man’s feet.

“Bwana wears the same pair every day,” the native said. “He uses one pair only until they are dead; then he goes to the Indian and buys more.”

“When do you clean them?” Vachell inquired.

“In the evening, when work is over, bwana takes off his shoes. He puts on the slippers, or sometimes, if it is wet, the long boots. Then I clean the shoes of every day and return them to bwana’s room, where they are ready for him in the morning.”

“And last night — did you return them as usual to his room?”

“Yes, of that I am certain; I cannot be mistaken.”

“Then why did your bwana put on the very old shoes, the pair that had died, if the new ones of every day were waiting as usual?”

Mwogi shrugged his shoulders.

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“I do not know. How am I to know why Europeans behave as they do? But I am certain I put the shoes of every day into his room last night.”

Vachell rubbed the lobe of his ear and puzzled a little over the point. It seemed irrelevant, and probably was, but all the same it was odd.

“The good shoes were in his room when you made up the bed this morning?” he persisted.

“Yes, bwana, I saw them on the floor when I entered, after he had gone to the cows, as if he had thrown them away in anger.”