“Fine,” Homer told him. “Come on Abe, let’s get our things together.”
“What do we do while you chaps are gone?” Elmer Allen said sourly. “I wouldn’t mind a period in a city myself.”
“Read a book, man,” Abe told him. “Improve your mind.”
“I’ve read a book,” Elmer said glumly. “Any other ideas?”
Dakar is a big, bustling, prosperous and modern city shockingly set down in the middle of the poverty that is Africa. It should be, by its appearance, on the French Riviera, on the California coast, or possibly that of Florida, but it isn’t. It’s in Senegal, in the area once known as French West Africa.
Their aircraft swept in and landed at the busy airport.
They were assigned an African Development Project air-cushion car and drove into the city proper.
Dakar boasts some of the few skyscrapers in all Africa. The Reunited Nations occupied one of these in its entirety. Dakar was the center of activities for the whole Western Sahara and down into the Sudan. Across the street from its offices, a street still named Rue des Resistance in spite of the fact that the French were long gone, was the Hotel Juan-les-Pins.
Crawford and Abe Baker had radioed ahead and accommodations were ready for them. Their western clothing and other gear had been brought up from storage in the cellar.
At the desk, the clerk didn’t blink at the Tuareg costume the two still wore. This was commonplace. He probably wouldn’t have blinked had Isobel arrived in the costume of the Dogon. “Your suite is ready, Dr. Crawford,” he said.
The manager came up and shook hands with an old customer and Homer Crawford introduced him to Isobel, Jake and Cliff, requesting he do his best for them. He and Abe then made their excuses and headed for the paradise of hot water, towels, western drink and the other amenities of civilization.
On the way up in the elevator, Abe said happily, “Man, I can just taste that bath I’m going to take. Crazy!”
“Personally,” Crawford said, trying to reflect some of the other’s typically lighthearted enthusiasm, “I have in mind a few belts out of a bottle of stone-age cognac, then a steak yea big and a flock of french fries, followed by vanilla ice cream.”
Abe’s eyes went round. “Man, you mean we can’t get a good dish of cous cous in this town?”
“Cous cous,” Crawford said in agony.
Abe made his voice so soulful. “With a good dollop of rancid camel butter right on top.”
Homer laughed as they reached their floor and started for the suite. “You make it sound so good, I almost believe you.” Inside he said, “Dibbers on the first bath. How about phoning down for a bottle of Napoleon and some soda and ice? When it comes, just mix me one and bring it in. That hand you see emerging from the soap bubbles in that tub will be mine.”
“I hear and obey, O Bwana!” Abe said in a servile tone.
By the time they’d cleaned up and had eaten an enormous western-style meal in the dining room of the Juan-les-Pins, it was well past the hour when they could have made contact with their Reunited Nations superiors. They had a couple of cognacs in the bar, then, whistling happily, Abe Baker went out on the town.
Homer Crawford looked up Isobel, Jake and Cliff who had, sure enough, found accommodations in the same hotel.
Isobel stepped back in mock surprise when she saw Crawford in western garb. “Heavens to Betsy,” she said. “The man is absolutely extinguished in a double-breasted charcoal gray.”
He tried a scowl and couldn’t manage it. “The word is distinguished, not extinguished,” he said. He looked down at the suit critically. “You know, I feel uncomfortable. I wonder if I’ll be able to sit down in a chair instead of squatting.” He looked at her own evening frock. “Wow,” he said.
Cliff Jackson said menacingly, “None of that stuff, Crawford. Isobel has already been asked for, let’s have no wolfing around.”
Isobel said tartly, “Asked for but she didn’t answer the summons.” She took Homer by the arm. “And I just adore extinguish—oops, I mean distinguished looking men.”
They trooped laughingly into the hotel cocktail lounge.
The time passed pleasantly. Jake and Cliff were good men in a field close to Homer Crawford’s heart. Isobel was possibly the most attractive woman he’d ever met. They discussed in detail each other’s work and all had stories of wonder to describe.
Crawford wondered vaguely if there was ever going to be a time, in this life of his, for a woman and all that one usually connects with womanhood. What was it Elmer Allen had said at the Timbuktu meeting? “…most of us will be kept busy the rest of our lives at this.”
In his present state of mind, it didn’t seem too desirable a prospect. But there was no way out for such as Homer Crawford. What had Cliff Jackson said at the same meeting? “We do what we must do.” Which, come to think of it, didn’t jibe too well with Cliff’s claim at Mopti to be in it solely for the job. Probably the man disguised his basic idealism under a cloak of cynicism; if so, he wouldn’t be the first.
They said their goodnights early. All of them were used to Sahara hours. Up at dawn, to bed shortly after sunset; the desert has little fuel to waste on illumination.
In the suite again, Homer Crawford noted that Abe hadn’t returned as yet. He snorted deprecation. The younger man would probably be out until dawn. Dakar had much to offer in the way of civilization’s fleshpots.
He took up the bottle of cognac and poured himself a healthy shot, wishing that he’d remembered to pick up a paperback at the hotel’s newsstand before coming to bed.
He swirled the expensive brandy in the glass and brought it to his nose to savor the bouquet.
But fifteen-year-old brandy from the cognac district of France should not boast a bouquet involving elements of bitter almonds. With an automatic startled gesture, Crawford jerked his face away from the glass.
He scowled down at it for a long moment, then took up the bottle and sniffed it. He wondered how a would-be murderer went about getting hold of cyanide in Dakar.
Homer Crawford phoned the desk and got the manager. Somebody had been in the suite during his absence. Was there any way of checking?
He didn’t expect satisfaction and didn’t receive any. The manager, after finding that nothing seemed to be missing, seemed to think that perhaps Dr. Crawford had made a mistake. Homer didn’t bother to tell him about the poisoned brandy. He hung up, took the bottle into the bathroom and poured it away.
In the way of precautions, he checked the windows to see if there were any possibilities of entrance by an intruder, locked the door securely, put his hand gun beneath his pillow and fell off to sleep. When and if Abe returned, he could bang on the door.
In the morning, clad in American business suits and frankly feeling a trifle uncomfortable in them, Homer Crawford and Abraham Baker presented themselves at the offices of the African Development Project, Sahara Division, of the Reunited Nations. Uncharacteristically, there was no waiting in anterooms, no dealing with subordinates. Dr. Crawford and his lieutenant were ushered directly to the office of Sven Zetterberg.
Upon their entrance the Swede came to his feet, shook hands abruptly with both of them and sat down again. He scowled at Abe and said to Homer in excellent English, “It was requested that your team remain in Mopti.” Then he added, “Sit down, gentlemen.”
They took chairs. Crawford said mildly, “Mr. Baker is my right-hand man. I assume he’d take over the team if anything happened to me.” He added dryly, “Besides, there were a few things he felt he had to do about town.”