The Seersucker Whipsaw (27 page)

“Not at all, Jimmy. I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks very much.” The three of them left and Jenaro turned to us.

“We'd better get over there. You follow me so I can identify you before you get shot.”

We followed the Jaguar and made the mile in a little over a minute. Three police cars were there by the time we arrived and Jenaro took charge. He beckoned a Sergeant, the only noncommissioned officer in sight. The Sergeant moved over smartly, came to attention, and saluted. “Sah!”

“How long have you been here?”

“Five minutes, Sah. No more.”

“You're to take full command until Lieutenant Oslako arrives. Follow your normal routine. Keep the curious out. Don't touch anything.”

“Sah!” the sergeant barked and saluted again. By now there was a small crowd composed mostly of servants from the various compounds. Silex, our watch night, was telling—with descriptive gestures—how he'd found the body and promptly reported the matter to the police and Chief Jenaro. I had the feeling he would be telling the story for years.

Cheatwood's body lay in the dirt and gravel halfway up our driveway in a pool of light furnished by the headlamps of a police car. The left side of his face rested in the dirt; his green eyes were open and empty. His left hand was in a position that could have helped him to rise if he had been alive. It clutched half of his ebony walking stick. The other half was a few feet away. I thought that he might have smacked somebody with it. The back of his shirt was soaked with blood and the earth and gravel around him were darkened with it. Alive, he seemed to have been a quiet, calm man. Dead, he seemed to be in a violent spasm that was temporarily suspended. Jenaro turned and talked to one of the policemen. Shartelle and I walked over to the body.

“Reckon he had something to tell us?”

I shrugged.

“Take a look,” Shartelle said. “By his right hand.” The hand had the index finger extended stiffly. The finger had dug two shallow trenches in the dirt and gravel. The first trench was a curve; the second was a straight line.

“Could be a ‘C' and an ‘I,'” I said.

Shartelle nodded and stepped casually on the scrabblings in the dirt, erasing them under his shoe. “Could be an ‘A' is missing.”

“Could be,” I said. “If it is, I think we'd better know it before anybody else does.”

Jenaro walked over to us. “Buddy, could you spare a drink?”

“Sure.”

“I could use it,” he said. “The Lieutenant won't be here for ten minutes or so and there's no sense in me trying to play Inspector Jenaro.”

Inside, Shartelle mixed the drinks and handed one to Jenaro who took a large swallow. “You know,” he said, “we've inherited some of the British traditions that will be with us for a long time. Like general disapproval of having a cop killed. Cheatwood had been here a long time. He knew a lot of people.”

“Lots of enemies?” I asked.

“A policeman's usual accumulation. He was fair—that was his reputation. Even scrupulous. You'd met him, hadn't you?”

“He called on us the other day,” Shartelle said. “Dropped in to let us know we had neighbors.”

“They'll bury him tomorrow.”

“I don't think we knew him well enough to attend the funeral,” I said.

A medium-sized Albertian knocked on the edge of the folded French doors. He wore the police uniform and the insignia of a Lieutenant.

“Chief Jenaro,” he said politely. “I'm sorry I'm late.”

Jenaro introduced us to Lieutenant Oslako whose uniform was a stiffly-starched khaki shirt, equally stiff khaki walking shorts, a Sam Browne belt, a visored cap that he kept tucked under his arm, thick white wool socks that almost reached his knees, and high-topped shoes—the kind that are called clodhoppers in some sections of the States. Shartelle's section, I thought.

“You were informed that you are Acting Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The killer or killers must be found, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. I considered Captain Cheatwood my friend.”

“Carry out the investigation with that in mind.”

“May I ask a question, sir?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask Mr. Shartelle and Mr. Upshaw whether they heard—”

“They were with me,” Jenaro said. “Ask their watch night and their servants.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant saluted, did a smart about-face and went out into the night to find out who had killed his boss.

“I'd hate to think they killed Cheatwood just to mess up the vote counting,” Shartelle said.

“No chance,” Jenaro said. “If that were true, I'd be the prime suspect. He'd worked out the handling of the ballots months in advance with the people in Barkandu and in the Ministry of Home Affairs here. It'll go just the way he planned it.”

Jenaro took a final swallow and rose. “Thanks for the drink. I have to go down to my Ministry.”

“What or who killed him, Jimmy, in your opinion?”

Jenaro smiled slightly. “He was white. That helped kill him. Maybe he had a couple of pounds in his pocket. That would help, too. Or maybe for no reason at all other than it was time to kill someone.”

“Independence fever?” Shartelle asked.

“Something like that. Africa Now, maybe. I doubt that we'll ever know really. But someone wanted him dead; they stabbed him enough.”

After Jenaro had gone, and after the police had crawled around the lawn on their hands and knees with flashlights, looking for the murder weapon and knowing damned well they weren't going to find it, and after they had taken away Cheatwood's body and sprinkled sand on the spot where he had bled on the dirt and gravel, Shartelle and I decided to have a night-cap.

“Who do you think killed him?” I asked Shartelle.

“Not you, not me, not Jenaro, and not those three bad poker players, although they're real nice fellows. I figure that leaves about twenty million live suspects.”

“He was too smart a cop to be taken by a drunk-roller.”

Shartelle nodded. “I was just wondering how much grit you've got to have to lie out there in the dirt with the life oozing out of you while you try to find the strength to claw a name in the ground with your finger. It must have been something mighty important.”

“It was to him,” I said. “I wonder if it ever will be to anybody else?”

Chapter

19

To Shartelle, she was always the Widow Claude. Her name was Madame Claude Duquesne and she stood at Major Chuku's side, welcoming guests as Anne, Shartelle and I arrived for the Friday night party. We had picked up Anne at her apartment earlier where Shartelle had inspected the roommates without displaying much interest, not even in the merry one from Berkeley. We had gone on to the Sahara South for a drink and from there to the Major's home.

It was a garden party. The Major lived, somewhat beyond his means, I assumed, in a large two-story house with fake beams poking through the stucco exterior. His lawns were as neatly kept as ours and his shrubbery, flowers and plants even better. Japanese lanterns, the special kind they now have that keep mosquitoes away, were strung about the garden. It was a black-tie affair and Shartelle wore his madras dinner jacket with a certain flair, I thought. I wore a white one with a shawl collar and Anne said I looked keen. We arrived after about half the guests were there. The Major, in white dress uniform, stood by a table loaded with iced champagne. Madame Duquesne stood at his left.

When Shartelle saw her as we came around the corner of the house, following the path that led to the garden, he stopped still and stared for a full half-minute. “Petey,” he said in a reverent voice, “that's the prettiest little old Creole I've ever laid eyes on and that takes in New Orleans and Baton Rouge, too.”

“How do you know she's Creole?” I said.

He looked at me and sniffed. “Boy, us Creoles can spot each other a country mile away.”

“She makes me feel dowdy,” Anne said. “She's wearing a Balenciaga. I thought I was going to show off with Neiman- Marcus.”

“You're prettier,” I said, but it didn't sound convincing. Madame Duquesne was a brunette and her hair was cut short. It framed a face that was almost perfectly oval and seemed to have been delicately carved out of new ivory. Her mouth may have been a little wide, but a slightly pouting lower lip looked as if it demanded to be bitten. A straight, barely turned-up nose revealed nostrils that seemed to flare in passion. Her eyes, I rhapsodized, were flashing black promises of a thousand nights of exquisite variations. That was her face—if your eyes ever got above her legs—which were the long, slim kind with knees that seemed faultless, perfectly curving calves, ankles that your hand would fit around so that your thumb and fingers would overlap, and that slight, somehow provocative, curve on the lower shin that a lot of dancers have. Her dress clung to thighs and hips that called for a pat, and just managed to cover a part of her breasts. I kept staring at her breasts, waiting for the dress to slip.

“Heel, Prince,” Anne said.

“No offense, Miss Anne, but that little old girl just makes a man's mouth water,” Shartelle said. He forgot his manners for once and moved quickly over to Major Chuku.

“Major, I'm Clint Shartelle.”

The Major smiled at him and extended his hand. “Mr. Shartelle, I'm so glad that you could come. Allow me to present Madame Duquesne who is doing me the honor of serving as hostess for my little party. The Major switched to rapid, fluent French and said to Madame Duquesne: “Permit me to introduce M. Clinton Shartelle. He is the American political expert whom I mentioned earlier this evening.”

Madame Duquesne smiled at Shartelle and extended her hand. “I have been looking forward to meeting you, Monsieur.” Her English had a faint accent.

Shartelle gracefully bent his snow-white head over her hand and replied in smooth, liquid French: “Madame, the pleasure must be entirely mine. I now know why I came to Africa. Perhaps you will join me in a glass of champagne later?”

She nodded and smiled again. “I will be looking forward to it.”

The Major had a bleak look about him when he heard Shartelle rattle off his French. He recovered enough to greet Anne warmly and to give me his firm handshake. He introduced Anne to Madame Duquesne, again in French. He was not only a slick article, I decided, he was also a show-off.

“That is a most striking gown, Madame Duquesne,” Anne said as they exchanged handclasps. “Paris, isn't it?” She also spoke French.

Madame's eyes roved over Anne's dress. “Yes—and thank you, my dear. Major Chuku has told me that you are with the American Peace Corps. I admire you for it and I must say that you look lovely tonight.”

There are advantages to having a degree in letters, even from the University of Minnesota. The six months I spent at the University of Quebec as part of my minor in French were finally going to pay off. Once more, the Major made the introduction in French. Madame Duquesne gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave hers a little squeeze back. If I knew Shartelle, it was as close as I would ever get.

“The Major has told me of you, M. Upshaw.” She spoke in French this time. “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Unfortunately, Madame, the Major has not been advertising
your
existence. I cannot say that I blame him, but I am delighted that you are no longer his secret.” It all came out in French, with a Quebec-North Dakota accent perhaps, but still French.

I moved on to Shartelle and Anne who stood by the table where the white-jacketed stewards served champagne and Scotch and brandy. “What were you doing, taking her pulse?” Anne asked.

“Ain't she something, Petey? I'm sure glad you're spoke for, boy, because that leaves the field wide-open for old Clint.”

“Where'd you learn to speak French, Shartelle?”

“Why, New Orleans, boy. I didn't speak nothing but French till I was six, seven years old. I noticed you and Miss Anne were talking it pretty good. Where you all pick it up?”

“I started in the eighth grade and took it all through high school and college,” Anne said. “Pete picked his up in a Marseille cathouse.”

“University of Quebec,” I said. “It was a special program.”

“Miss Anne, you don't have to be jealous about old Pete here. I'm going to look after that little old Creole just fine. Ain't she got the damnedest eyes you ever did see?”

“He didn't look at her eyes,” Anne said.

I finished my champagne and helped myself to another glass. There seemed to be an endless supply. “If you're going to move in, Clint, you're going to have to move the Major out. He seems to have a certain proprietary interest.”

Shartelle took Anne's glass and got her a fresh drink and one for himself. “Boy, true love will find a way. It always has.”

“You're gone, huh?”