Mrs. Pollifax on Safari Page 8

  The cartridge wasn't there.

  Startled, Mrs. Pollifax picked up the jacket, turned each pocket inside out, shook the garment, tossed it across the bed and began digging through her suitcase. She could find no metal cartridge. She crawled under the bed and searched and then checked through her purse: no film. Thoroughly alarmed now, she picked up her suitcase and dumped the contents all over the bed and began a frenzied hunt.

  Still there was no cartridge. Be calm, she thought, and sat down on the bed in the middle of bright sweaters, cold creams, slacks and sneakers, but there was no evading the fact that the film was missing. Yet she'd packed it this noon at Chunga camp before coming here, and several minutes later when the boy had come for her suitcase she'd reopened the bag to add her toothbrush, and the exposed film had still been there: she could see it now in her memory, sticking out of the pocket of her folded bush jacket. And since her suitcase had been locked during its journey to Kafwala there could have been no accident that would jar open the suitcase and scatter its contents. The film had been locked inside her suitcase when it left Chunga, and her suitcase had remained locked until she had opened it half an hour ago to extract a bar of soap for her bath. She'd reached inside without looking because she knew exactly where the soap was, but she'd had to unlock the suitcase to do so, and the lock had not been tampered with then . . .

  But if the film wasn't lost—and it couldn't have been, she thought grimly, going over and over it-—then it had to have been stolen, and stolen while she was taking a bath.

  She sat without moving, allowing the shock of this to catch up with her, and it was a very real shock, with implications that left her a little dizzy. How frightfully arrogant she'd been, she thought, dashing about taking her snapshots so openly while all the time someone on this safari didn't want to be photographed. Someone had allowed her to snap as many of them as she pleased, and then her film had been quietly taken away from her. She had been discreetly and firmly put in her place.

  Score one for Aristotle, she thought.

  Brazen, of course, but so easy ... an empty room with only an inside bolt on the door and no way of locking it on the outside, her suitcase unlocked and she in the bathtub ...

  A flicker of anger stirred in her, grew, and at last triumphed over her alarm: it appeared that she now had a definite adversary, faceless, nameless and observant. She could assume that her burglar knew nothing about her except that she preferred faces mixed in with her scenery, but her unknown antagonist was clever, she knew that now. He had moved in early, counting on her not noticing, counting on her being a dithery, rather silly woman addicted to snapshots. He would do better next time, she thought, to leave an unexposed film behind him, because even silly dithery women noticed when too many exposed films disappeared.

  But in the meantime she had lost twenty valuable pictures, and unless she could outthink her burglar she was doomed to see her completed films picked off like flies. It was also disturbing to realize that her collection was reduced to the six or seven snapshots still in her camera ... or had these been tampered with too? The camera still registered seven snapshots on its gauge, and the cartridge looked untouched, but just to be certain she removed the film, put in a fresh one and dropped the half-completed one in her purse. The sealed boxes she hid: one in her totebag, one in the toe of a sneaker, the last inside her purse.

  Defiantly she decided that she would continue her snapshot-taking with an enthusiasm certain to annoy her adversary, but it was time now to turn to her lapel-pin camera. She had worn the latter pinned to her sweater and by now her companions must be accustomed to seeing her wear it, incongruous as it looked with casual clothes. She would continue to wear it doggedly.

  Still shaken by her discovery she repacked her suitcase and locked it. As she left her room she found Cyrus Reed opening the door of the room on the other side of the arcade. He turned, looking genuinely surprised. "You're there?" he said. "Good, we're neighbors."

  Even if it was he who had stolen her film, she thought it might be wise to mention her discovery of its disappearance. "If you've been down by the river," she said, "I wonder if you could tell me—or remember—just who left the group to walk up this way past my room?"

  Reed looked from her to the door behind her and his brows lifted. "Something missing?" he asked quietly.

  She nodded. "Yes, while I was in that building over there taking a bath. But I don't," she added, "want to cause a fuss."

  "Quite right," he said. "Very sensible. And you want to know who left the party . . . Have to say nearly everyone," he said regretfully. "Let's see . . . good lord, even I left. Spilled some beer on my slacks, came up to change. Steeves ran out of film—passed him coming up as I went back. Mclntosh left to take a nap—still gone. Kleiber came up for a map to prove some point or other, Lisa for a sweater. Chanda went with you and didn't return. Yes, I'd say the only two who stayed by the river were Mrs. Lovecraft and Dr. Henry. Nothing too valuable, I hope?"

  "Fairly so, yes. To me."

  "Don't like to hear that. You gave a thorough search? But of course you would." He placed the emphasis on you very flatteringly.

  She gave him a smile and took a few steps toward the path. "A very efficient list, Mr. Reed. Thank you."

  "No," he said firmly.

  She turned in surprise.

  "Not Mr. Reed. Call me Cyrus."

  "Oh." She hesitated and then nodded. "And my name's Emily." As she descended the hill, leaving him behind, she realized that she felt obscurely better and was even smiling. A rather fatuous smile, she guessed, but still she was smiling.

  By half-past six there was a crackling fire down by the river, the sole illumination except for a lantern hung from a post. They sat in a circle around the fire, drawn closer by the darkness beyond them and by the feeling of being very small under the huge trees and beside the roaring river. They sat and talked and sipped beer. The only activity came from two people: one the grave-faced young man in a white jacket who came down the hill bearing silverware, napkins and plates, then went up again and returned with cups and saucers, more beer and glassware. The other was Mrs. Pollifax who, with a flashcube attached to her camera, knelt, hovered, stood, sat and wickedly took picture after picture.

  "Why do you bother," asked Mr. Kleiber curiously, "when you don't have a good German camera like Mr. Mclntosh or Mrs. Lovecraft?"

  "Oh, but this camera is just fine for an amateur," she said. "I snap pictures just for my children, you know. They'll be fascinated, and then of course my grandchildren will love seeing the animals. I always try," she told him firmly, "to create a total background, so that they can step into the adventure and experience it too."

  "And do you," asked Cyrus Reed dryly, "show slides?"

  She gave him a level glance and without batting an eyelash, for she loathed slides, said, "Of course."

  "Incredible," he said, staring at her.

  On an inspired note she added, "As a matter of fact after dinner I'll bring down pictures of my grandchildren to show you. They're very lovely grandchildren."

  "Really?" said Amy Lovecraft coldly.

  The young waiter had just arrived bearing a large tray, followed by two young men carrying steaming dishes, and he chose this moment to announce that dinner was served. Mrs. Pollifax jumped up immediately and became the first to approach the food spread out on the table. She was not surprised when she returned to her chair to find herself something of a pariah after her announcement about snapshots. Mr. Kleiber chose a seat as far removed from her as possible, and Mrs. Lovecraft, who had shown no real interest in Mr. Kleiber before, eagerly took the chair next him. Lisa, assuming a more neutral corner, was joined by Steeves as usual. Tom Henry found a seat not far from Lisa, and Mclntosh, still smiling enigmatically, sat beside Julian.

  Only Chanda and Cyrus Reed showed signs of not being infected. Chanda sat down cross-legged on the ground beside Mrs. Pollifax and gave her a dazzling white smile. "I sit here. You nunandi."

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p; "Damn awkward eating from one's lap," growled Reed. "Try a corner of this little table," suggested Mrs. Pollifax. "After all, the word safari means camping."

  "Touché" he said, smiling. "Thanks. Incredibly good food. Can't imagine how they do such a cordon bleu job out here without electricity."

  "There is big wood stove," Chanda told him eagerly, "and very fine cook. Julian calls him a—a chef."

  Reed nodded. "That's it, then. Saw you up there poking around. Anyone else speak Bemba here?"

  "Cimo," said Chanda, holding up one finger. "There is good life here in park, maybe I not be hunter."

  "Tom said you're damn good at hunting and tracking and only twelve years old," pointed out Reed, deftly spearing a piece of steak. "Said you went off to see what's left of your old village on the Angolan border this spring, and hiked fifty miles through the bush alone."

  Chanda's smile deepened. "Yes, that. He tell you about the lions?"

  "Lions!" exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax. "Three of 'em," said Reed, nodding, "but how did you know they were following you, Chanda?"

  "Because—" Chanda hesitated. "I do not know name for cula."

  Several chairs away, Julian said, "Frogs, Chanda." "Ah! Yes. I hear them, you know. They make a frog sound, and then I cross kamana—" "Brook," called Tom Henry. "Yes, brook, and frogs are very noisy talking to each other. T walk more, and then—" He lifted one hand and cut the air dramatically. "Cula sound stop. So I look for big tree to climb because it becomes dark, like now, and I know something follows me or the frogs would be making noise."

  "Good heavens," said Lisa. They were all listening now. "Three lions try to climb tree for me, but I am too high. I sit all night for them to go away." "I take it they did eventually," said Steeves. "But not until morning," put in Tom Henry. "Yes, I climb down from tree but cannot walk. Mwcndo become like tree too."

  "He means he'd lost all circulation in his legs," explained Tom. "His limbs had become like the tree."

  Chanda nodded. "So I hunt sticks and dry grass and after long time make fire rubbing sticks. This is very hard to do. For many hours I sit to warm myself at fire, and then I go."

  "Something I can't imagine any American twelve-year-old doing," said Reed.

  "Still, Africa's a shade more hospitable a country than Mongolia," put in Steeves. "There you've panthers and tigers, but even if the sun shines three hundred days a year you get tremendous winds and a horrendous wind-chill factor."

  "Tigers we don't have," said Julian, "but tomorrow we look for lion for you."

  "Oh, I do hope we see one," cried Lisa eagerly. "What time do we start?" asked Mrs. Pollifax. "Directly after breakfast, about half-past seven." "Early," said Amy Lovecraft, making a face. The white-jacketed waiter had brought down a new tray which he set upon the table. Now he bowed, his face grave, and said, "Pudding is served, please, ladies and gentlemen."

  It was after the pudding that Tom Henry reminded Chanda he was tired today and it was time for him to invest in some sleep. The boy arose from his cross-legged stance on the ground, and at the same moment Mrs. Pollifax had a sudden, dazzling idea. She, too, arose. "I'll go up with Chanda," she said. "It's so dark I couldn't bring myself to go alone, but if we're breakfasting at seven—"

  "What, no snapshots of your grandchildren?" asked Reed mischievously.

  "I'm still catching up on my sleep," she said, ignoring him and picking up her purse. "Good night!"

  A chorus of farewells followed her as she turned away from the fire. It was very dark outside the circle of light and Chanda took her hand and guided her. Pebbles slid underfoot; the sound of the rushing water behind them made a low musical backdrop, rather soporific, she thought, like the murmur of voices heard from a distant room. There was a lantern waiting at the top of the hill, placed on a table in the center of the arcade. She turned and looked back at the campfire, counting heads. They were all there, no one had left. She said, "Chanda . . ."

  "Yes, madam."

  "Chanda, I wonder if you'd hide something for me— keep something for me—in your cwno bag."

  He stared at her, eyes clouded now, opaque, mysterious, so that she wondered if he understood.

  "It's something important and quite small. Only until the safari ends," she added quickly. "It needs—needs hiding." She walked around the corner of the passageway out of the lantern's light and opened her camera and removed the film that she'd completed down by the camp-fire. When she held it out to Chanda he remained impassive, the expression in his eyes chilling, as if he looked into, through and beyond her into something she couldn't see. Then abruptly the mask splintered into smiles, the strange effect was gone and an enormous smile lighted up his eyes.

  "Yes, secret," he said, nodding, and taking the cartridge from her hand he loosened the string of his chamois bag and dropped the film inside.

  She realized that she had been holding her breath; she exhaled now in relief. "You're a real friend, Chanda."

  "But of course—nunandi" he said, laughing, and raced off into the darkness, calling over his shoulder, "Good night, madam!"

  She stared after him thoughtfully. She did hope he understood but at least in giving him one of her films she felt that she had diversified, and this lifted her spirits. Her glance moved to the fire at the rear of the camp where the silhouettes of half a dozen men crouched talking around the blaze. She turned to go to her room and jumped when she saw Cyrus Reed standing in the arcade watching her.

  "Oh—you startled me," she gasped, and wondered how long he'd been standing there and how much he'd seen.

  He held out her sun-goggles and her umbrella. "Left these behind you," he said, handing them to her, and then, "Care for a stroll around the compound before turning in?"

  She hesitated. "I do feel rather unexercised," she admitted.

  "Good. Damn good display of Orion and the Pleiades if we can get away from the light of the fire. Tiresome down below after you left. Can't help noticing that Mrs. Love-craft talks through her nose and Mr. Kleiber sniffs a great deal through his, and Steeves was running on about Mongolia, which is all very well but this is Africa."

  She laughed. "You poor man."

  "Not at all," he said amiably, taking her arm. "Decided to look for better company."

  "1 think your daughter Lisa's a darling, by the way."

  "She is, isn't she? Seems to be thawing out now. Damn glad to see it."

  "And you," she said, "are really a judge?"

  He brought out his flashlight, checked it and nodded.

  "A phungu, Julian tells me. The Nyanga word for judge or counselor."

  "Phungu" she repeated, trying it out on the tongue. "Sounds a little like fungus. What sort of phungu were you before you retired? Did you have hundreds of exciting cases?"

  "Strictly routine," he said, "except for the Rambeau-Jenkins case."

  Mrs. Pollifax stopped in her tracks and stared at him. "Oh," she gasped, "do you think she murdered him?"

  He had been staring up at the sky; now he turned and looked down at her and smiled his sleepy smile. "That, my dear, only God knows."

  "But you were there, you presided, and I've so often wondered—"

  "Ha—common fallacy, that," he told her. "We phungus never judge guilt or innocence, we judge evidence. The law isn't emotional, you know, it's cold and impersonal. Has to be."

  "But you're not," she told him indignantly.

  She could see his smile in the light of the campfire. "Don't ever tell anyone, my dear." He stopped and said, "With you the 'my dear' just slips out."

  "Well, / think Nina Rambeau was innocent," she said, and hoped he wouldn't notice that she was blushing. She wondered how long it had been since anyone had called her "my dear." "Have you found Orion yet?"

  He shook his head. "Glow from the men's campfire bleaches out the stars. Daresay if we wandered a little way up the road we could sec better."

  "Oh, do let's," she said.

  He nodded pleasantly to the men around the campfire as they pass
ed. "Just looking at the stars," he told them, pointing at the sky.

  The men burst into smiles and nods.

  "Damn lot livelier up here than down by the river," he said mildly as they left the fire behind and entered the road beyond.

  They had ventured a few paces into the darkness when Mrs. Pollifax looked back and sighed. "It's the guard," she told Reed. "He's following us, isn't that ridiculous?"

  "Not at all," said Reed thoughtfully. "Can't have it both ways, my dear."

  "Can't—what do you mean by that?"

  "Well," he said in his mild voice, "if you want to observe wild animals in perfect safety you capture them, bring 'em back to our world and look at them behind bars in a zoo. Here we're their guests," he pointed out.

  "Trespassers, actually. They run free, wild and protected, but we do not."

  "Of course you're right," she said reluctantly. "It's just that it's so confining not to be able to leave camp without being followed."

  "Doubt if anyone could confine you, my dear. Ought to mind his presence far more than you since I've every intention of kissing you."

  She turned and looked at him in astonishment, which placed her in the perfect position for him to make good his intention. "Orion be damned," he said, and swept her into his arms.

  Mrs. Pollifax gave a small squeak of protest, resisted briefly and then discovered that she fitted very nicely into the curve of his arm and that she enjoyed being kissed very much. When he let her go she promptly dropped her sun-goggles, her kerchief and her umbrella. "Oh," she stammered. "Oh dear."

  He patiently retrieved them and handed them back to her. "And there," he said, grasping her hand and firmly holding it in his, "is Orion."