“A dress,” Nick repeated patiently. “I’ll explain it all when you get here. But she can’t go around in her...”
“I shop at the Paris Boutique,” Liz called out helpfully. “They know my size and everything.”
Nick relayed the information.
Jefferson chuckled. “I’ll ask my wife to take care of this, or I’ll never hear the end of it. In the meantime I’ll be on my way.”
He was there with his estimable Corporal in a matter of minutes. His face was a kaleidoscope of expressions as he stared around the room. Liz sat on the edge of the bed clutching Nick’s bathrobe to her ample bosom and trying to look demure. With her long, dark hair falling loosely about her shoulders and the robe revealing lengths of lovely leg and her eyes sparkling with Scotch and excitement, she looked anything but. The overturned service cart, instead of suggesting a brush with death, only contributed to the general impression of an uninhibited romp.
“Well!” Jefferson remarked appraisingly. “It must have been quite a party!”
“It was nothing of the sort,” said Nick severely. “It was a shocking experience. If that fellow isn’t picked up...”
“He already has been,” said Jefferson, his lips twitching. “Charged with indecent exposure and being improperly clad in public.”
Liz giggled. “I’ll be next.”
The soothing cadence of Corporal Stonewall Temba’s voice rippled across the room. “Chief Jefferson, sir. Mr. Carter, sir. Are you aware that there are listening devices implanted in this room?”
Nick turned and stared at the massive African with the mellifluous voice. Chief Jefferson smiled benignly.
“No, really?” said Nick at last, acid thinning his voice. “Then I suggest that you find out at once who is responsible for this further outrage...”
“Remove them, Corporal,” Jefferson said crisply.
Stonewall’s huge hands clawed at the wall and something snapped decisively. A loose wire dangled from the ceiling. “Done, six,” he boomed melodiously. “Perhaps, also, the telephone.” He lifted the instrument between vast thumb and massive forefinger and plucked at something beneath the base. “Excuse me now.”
He wafted swiftly from the room like some storybook genie and closed the door silently behind him.
“I had hoped,” Nick said carefully, fixing Jefferson with a stony stare, “to catch the eavesdropper in the act. But now, my friend, you’ve blown it.”
“Not necessarily, Mr. Carter.” Jefferson picked up the intruder’s throwing knife by the tip and viewed it thoughtfully. “You told us about it, you know. And we prepared ourselves. Oh, I realize what you intended.” He raised a placating hand. “But you must not forget that I am the Chief of Police, and I must handle these things in my own way.” His monkey face was serious, and the sharp eyes held assurance and command. “You have your job, sir, and I have mine. Now suppose you tell me just what happened.”
Nick scanned his face and made a rapid assessment. If this was round two, he’d lost two in a row without throwing a punch. But he liked what he saw in Jefferson’s face, and perhaps it was just as well that he could talk in front of these two people without wondering who else was listening in.
“Right,” he said. “Sit down. I called you because I think Miss Ashton may be in danger if she stays here. And as you know I have to leave here in a few minutes. What happened was this...”
In a few crisp phrases he sketched the details. Abe Jefferson frowned and smiled alternately.
“What I would like you to do,” Nick wrapped up his story, “is square this with the hotel people — I don’t want to hang around explaining things to them — and take care of the lady for me. And of course try to sweat something out of the fellow with the bare behind. Who sent him, what for, how his orders — well. As you said, you’re the Chief.” It was the first time in years that Nick had spoken freely to a policeman, and it made him feel wildly indiscreet and slightly hamstrung at the same time. “By the way, is the meeting still arranged?”
Jefferson nodded. “Oh, yes. There was no need to interfere with that. You must not worry, Mr. Carter. I shall not get in your way.” His lively eyes probed at Nick’s face. “I will only intrude myself when I am sure there is police business to be done. Catching wiretappers, protecting undraped ladies, and the like.” His face crinkled. “Even in those somewhat specialized areas I shall endeavor to be less a hindrance than a help. The attention you are attracting is of much interest to me. We can be of mutual value.”
“I hope so,” Carter said sincerely. “Any word from the hospital?”
“The President is holding his own,” the Chief said quietly. “That is all we know. We have not yet made the news public. There is a danger of Anti-American demonstrations — like the retaliatory bombing of the American Embassy.”
“Is that what you think it was?” Liz spoke up unexpectedly. “I don’t think so.”
Nick flashed her an approving look.
“I’d like to hear more from you later on, when you’re decently dressed and we have some time,” he told her. “Chief, you’ll see that she gets home, will you? I’ll have to be on my way. Meet you in the lobby at two?”
Jefferson nodded. “If not myself, then Stonewall. He and Uru will take you wherever you wish to go.”
“See you later,” Liz murmured comfortably. “Perhaps we can have breakfast together some time this afternoon.”
Nick walked swiftly down the broad main street and consulted his mental map. The Croix du Nord was four blocks south and three to the west on a broad thoroughfare in the business district. His cane tapped rhythmically along the smooth sidewalk and across the streets thinly speckled with traffic. The town was oddly silent — he could hear with separate clarity each swish of tires and each honk of a horn and each peddler’s call. There was something ominous about it, as if the town had stilled its normal sounds to listen. Or wait. Or watch. He wondered if the news about Makombe had somehow managed to leak out, or if it was just that he was not yet attuned to the natural quietness of an African city. Abimako, after all, was not New York.
And yet it was big enough to support a stunning array of adolescent skyscrapers and a downtown section of unrivaled department stores and restaurants flanked by markets ablaze with brilliant color and usually frenetically busy. No, the quiet tension was real, almost real enough to touch.
Nick detoured suddenly from his appointed course and strode swiftly into the newly completed railroad station. The morning’s dispatches were burning a hole in his inside pocket and there was no knowing what the rest of the day would bring. He found the men’s toilets and made himself at home in one of them. When he had mentally photographed the contents of the papers he tore them into miniscule pieces and flushed them into oblivion. Then he left the station and made his way briskly to the Cafe Croix du Nord.
It was five minutes to twelve when he sat down at a sidewalk table near the door and ordered a cup of Nyanga’s thick, strong coffee and an aperitif. After a few minutes of nervous sipping and watch-glancing he walked into the café and bought himself a pack of Players at an exorbitant price. He peeled it open while his eyes grew accustomed to the comparative gloom and lit one as he glanced casually around.
He knew even before his eyes told him that one of his visitors had already arrived, because little snakes seemed to be slithering down his back. The man with the unhealthily green face was sitting at a corner table half-hidden in the shadows, studiously not watching him. But his view of Nick’s chosen table was perfect.