The Seersucker Whipsaw (29 page)

She lied well, I thought. The Major didn't even twitch. He was all concern. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Shartelle. I can never thank you enough, Claude, for the wonders you worked here today. It was a splendid party. It will be the talk of Ubondo for days to come.” I decided he was still right out of the pages of an old issue of
Cosmopolitan
.

She put her hand to her head. “I was most happy to help. I have given full instructions to the stewards. They know exactly what to do.”

Major Chuku was on his feet. He helped Madame Duquesne to rise. I didn't think she needed much help.

“Mr. Shartelle, I am obligated to you for your kind offer to see Madame Duquesne home.”

“It is my pleasure, sir.”

The Major smiled wryly. “I am sure it is.”

Anne gave me the signal and we rose, too. We thanked the Major for the party, complimented him again on the food, told him it was a delightful evening, and started for the car. Shartelle and Madame Duquesne were right behind us. She had her own car, an old, topless TR-3 which Shartelle gallantly offered to drive. He helped her in and she wound some gossamer or spider web around her head to keep her hair from blowing. Shartelle started the car, grinned at us, and said: “See you folks in a few minutes.” He gave it too much gas and the back tires threw gravel at the Major's house.

I helped Anne into the Humber and we drove sedately home. By the time we got there the TR-3 was parked in front of the porch, the USIA transmitter in Monrovia was playing some American jazz over the radio, and Shartelle and Madame Duquesne were dancing close together on the front porch. Her headache seemed to have gone.

“Petey,” Shartelle said, “after you write those two statements, would you mind leaving a note for old Samuel? I think we're going to be four for breakfast.” We were.

Chapter

20

The next morning Anne lent Madame Duquesne a wraparound denim skirt and one of my shirts. The skirt had been providently stored away in the bottom drawer of the bureau two nights before along with a pair of bermuda shorts, some loafers and a blouse.

“If I'm going to be leaving here at eight in the morning, I don't have to look as if the party went on all night,” Anne had said when she stored the clothing away.

Shartelle looked inordinately pleased with himself and the Widow Claude was glowing and almost purring when I came into the living room. They were drinking coffee and Anne was having her second cup of tea. Shartelle was also reading the two statements I had written the previous night—my price of admission to the revels that had followed.

He put the statements on the small desk, looked at me, and shook his head slowly from side to side. “You're a writing fool, Petey. In one of them you have the lawyer fellow quitting old Chief Akomolo's outfit because the Chief is a threat to—what did you call it—‘the discipline that democracy entails.' And in the other one you got that guy quitting the party because the Chief is ‘symbolic of the neo-Fascism that threatens to engulf Africa.'”

“Is it not true, Clint?” the Widow Claude asked.

“What?”

“That the Fascists are on their way back?”

“They may be, honey, but they're not hiding behind old Chief Akomolo's skirts. You don't think you gave the opposition too much ammunition, do you, boy? I almost got clean mad at the Chief myself reading that stuff.”

“He'll be called worse than that before it's over.”

“You called him everything but a white man.”

“Even I wouldn't go that far, Shartelle.”

During breakfast, which was served in relays by Samuel, Charles, and Small Boy—who was a little nervous—the telephone rang. It was Shartelle's telephone pal, Mr. Ojara, informing him that a long distance telephone call was in the making and that he, Mr. Ojara, was personally supervising its completion.

“Well, I certainly do appreciate that, Mr. Ojara. Now how's your family? That youngest doing all right now? That's good. Yes, my family's fine. All right. I'll wait to hear from you.”

Ten minutes later the call came through. It was from Duffy and he was mad. I could hear him squawking as Shartelle held the instrument a good foot from his ear.

“Now you just calm down, Pig, and tell it to me slow. That's right … we asked you to get us some skywriters…. You tried, huh … hold on, Pig…. He tried to get us some skywriters, Pete.”

“He figured out the code after all.”

“Well, when they coming down, Pig? Not coming, huh? That is a shame…. Yessir, I would be interested in knowing who got 'em sewed up—hold on, Pig, let me tell Pete. He says that all the skywriters in England are sewed up. Somebody got to them first and he's going to tell me who it is in a minute.”

“Tell him I think it's a shame.”

“Pete says he thinks it's a shame, Pig. Who got them? They didn't! Hold on, let me tell Pete. He says Renesslaer has got them all sewed up.”

“Tell him I said that's a shame.”

“Pete said that's a shame, Pig.” There was some more squawking. Shartelle sighed and held the telephone an additional six inches from his ear. “Well, I don't know how that telegram could have been delayed, Pig. Jimmy Jenaro handled it himself. It sure is a pity though. Reckon we'll have to depend on the Bonne Annee cigar, huh? Well, now, that's bad news. Let me tell Pete. He says that Goodyear gave him a lot of doubletalk about a helium shortage and also claimed that the blimps were all booked up for county fairs or something.”

“You know what to tell him,” I said.

“Pete says that sure is a shame, Pig. I reckon we'll just have to make do. How you doing on the buttons and the credit card cases?” There was some more squawking. Shartelle smiled. “I know it's a lot of work, Pig, but that's your end of the shooting match.” He beckoned to the Widow Claude to bring him his coffee and she hurried over with it. Shartelle gave her a small pat on the butt. “Well, we're just working our fool heads off down here, Pig. Old Pete's writing and I'm politicking. The only trouble is that it gets awful lonely for both of us.”

Anne giggled.

“I agree, Pig. The skywriting and the blimps were good ideas. I'm sorry we didn't move fast enough. But you can give Pete credit for those ideas. The boy's just full of them.”

“Lying bastard,” I said.

“We'll try not to mess anything else up, Pig. It's looking better all the time…. I'll do that … goodbye.” Shartelle cradled the phone and grinned his happy grin.

“They bought it on the telegrams, Pete. They must be running scared. Renesslaer's got every skywriter in England tied up and on the continent, too. Pig tried for the States but the planes won't make the hop across the Atlantic because the pilots don't want to play Lindbergh. As for Goodyear, I figure that's sewed up through official government channels. Wonder how they're going to get that goddamned blimp over here?”

“The CIA will find a way,” I said.

“And these two old boys who are splitting from the party will just frost the cake,” Shartelle said. “My, this has started out to be a nice day!”

“Clint,” the Widow Claude said. “Anne and I have been talking while you were on the telephone. We have decided to come and cook dinner for you tonight.”

“I've already talked to Samuel,” Anne said. “There's no jurisdictional dispute. He wants to learn how to cook American to please the good mastahs.”

“Well, now,” Shartelle said. “It's getting just perfect, Pete. Here we are out on the edge of the Sahara, in politics and intrigue ass-deep to a giraffe, and the hot sun is shining down, and us sweating like pigs and swilling down gin and tonics, and bang, here they come, right out of the bush, two of the prettiest young ladies in the world offering to cook for us and all, and one with a liquor store at that.”

“It's not Africa, Shartelle,” I said weakly. “It's not Africa at all. We're not seeing Africa.”

“Why, boy, sure we are. You mean that slick-talking Major last night ain't Africa, and all those folks we met at Chief Akomolo's lunch, and that old witchdoctor and the Ile and his fine straw boater? That ain't Africa? And His Excellency and that two-mile walk we took and that a-shoutin' of our names oh, that was fine! You tell me old Doc Diokadu ain't Africa and Jimmy Jenaro? And even Cheatwood and those good old boys who are Permanent Secretaries? Why it's better than Mungo Park and that whole passel of books by Robert Ruark. Now I admit there's only been one killing and no animals to speak of, but I feel Africa—I feel it when I'm down in the market talking to those little old handkerchief-head general storekeepers. I feel it, boy, and if I feel it comfortable, then I consider it my good fortune and yours too.”

“Okay, Shartelle,” I said. “It's your Africa. You've got one that nobody'll ever change.”

Shartelle gave a satisfied nod at my capitulation. “Now then, it's perfectly all right for these two fine young ladies to offer to cook for us, but I think, Pete, we'd better give them some money to get the groceries. You got any money?”

“I got money,” I said. I took out my wallet and gave Anne four five-pound notes.

“That's forty-two dollars,” she said.

Shartelle waved his hand magnanimously. It was my money. “Don't worry about it, Miss Anne. You and the Widow Claude just stock us up nice. And if you can teach old Samuel some new recipes, why I might even part with mine for dirty rice.”

“For what?” Anne asked.

“You mean to say you never heard of dirty rice?”

“No, Clint, I have never heard of dirty rice.”

“Well, now, we've got a treat coming Sunday. Pete has said he's the expert on fried chicken. So why don't you find us about three or four good plump fryers. Pete'll fry us up a mess of chicken and I'll cook up a potful of dirty rice—just get me two, three pounds of chicken livers and gizzards, honey—and you two young ladies can lollygag around in the shade sipping ice tea, as befits your station in life.”

Anne looked at me. “You're right,” she said. “It has to be seen to be believed. Can you give me a lift, Claude? I've got to go teach some kids.”

“Of course. Shall we meet later to do the shopping?”

“I'll call you.”

Shartelle and I each got a fond goodbye kiss. The Widow Claude wound the gossamer around her hair to keep it from blowing. Anne let hers stream out behind. Shartelle watched them leave. “Ain't they a sight, Pete?”

“I'm forced to agree.”

The laterite-covered station wagon almost took a fender off of the Widow Claude's TR-3 as she pulled out of the driveway. She yelled something obscene at the driver in French and drove on. The station wagon backed up and a face peered out of the rear window. Shartelle and I watched from the porch. An American voice yelled: “Pete Upshaw around?”

“Here,” I yelled back.

The station wagon backed up some more and the driver spun it up the drive. I saw who it was then. The trio.

“Good God,” I said, “it's Diddy, Dumps and Tot.”

“Who?”

“AP, UPI and Reuters.”

“MY.”

“There goes the morning.”

“Maybe they know something.”

“The only thing they'll know is that they're thirsty.”

The AP man I had known from the days when I was my paper's chief and only European correspondent. He was pushing sixty-five now and had been writing about it all since he was twenty-five. The UPI man was an Australian, a beanpole made of fine wires that were going to fuse one of these days. I had known him when he was in the UPI office in London. The Reuters correspondent was Albertian and roamed the west coast of Africa as far south as Angola, but no farther. He was a big deep-purple man with a huge red and white smile.

“What did you call them?” Shartelle asked.

“Diddy, Dumps and Tot. They were three characters in a book I once read who use to tag around together.”

“I read the same book,” Shartelle said. “I was eight years old.”

“I was six.”

The AP man's name was Foster Mothershand. He was called Mother, of course. He was from Omaha but that was a long time ago. The UPI's man was called Charles Crowell and he pronounced it Crow-well. He was from Adelaide really, but he told everyone he was from Sydney. I don't remember how I found out that he was from Adelaide. I think his girl friend in London told me. The Albertian with Reuters was born in Barkandu, educated at the London School of Economics, and had once worked on the
Observer
. That was when I'd known him. His name was Jerome Okpari and he had been married and divorced three times.

On a story like this they would go together in their small pack. It was a matter of economics, actually. They didn't particularly like or dislike each other, but Mothershand was getting too old to do the legwork that he once did and Reuters and UPI still paid navvy's wages to its correspondents who didn't happen to be American. Their London offices also gave the expense accounts a long hard stare. Associated Press, on the other hand, was probably paying Mothershand somewhere around $17,000 to $19,000 a year, plus an expense account that was audited once every five years or so. So Mothershand picked up the tab for the car which all three of them put on their expense sheets, a receipt for each cheerfully furnished by the Lebanese rental car dealer.