Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 11

Zanzibar Saturday afternoon

          Abdul Reinhard leaned back against his desk, secretary and security guard standing before him. Arms folded, ankles crossed, mask firmly in place, even his one visible eye was enough to convey his displeasure.
          “You are certain nothing was taken?” he asked brusquely.
          “Your desk was rifled, sir, and I couldn’t say they didn’t make off with some pencils or stationery, but your desk diary and ledgers and all the merchandise is accounted for. Of course, I will double check everything.”
          “Of course. And you, Zahur, are you certain the intruder was a woman?”
          “The thief wore a woman’s clothing, sir. If it was a man, he was very small, but all I really saw were the eyes, and then only for an instant.”
          “How did she, or he, gain entrance?”
          “The louvers in the store room were dismantled. I believe she must have climbed the drainpipe.”
          “Obviously, they will have to be replaced. Elena, summon a craftsman today. Tell him I want iron louvers in that room, welded into place. I expect there to be no repetition of this nonsense, I don’t care if the only thing she takes is a pencil. Along that line, Zahur, if you feel you need help in patrolling the entire building, hire someone to assist you. And not your drunken cousin! Someone tough and trustworthy who knows what they are doing. Now, be so good as to load my bags on the wagon. Elena, as I told you, I have business in Kisumu, and I may be there for an extended period. Reach me by post should you need anything, or telegram if it is urgent. I’ll check both offices daily. Have you any questions?”
          “Is there anything I need to know about your business there?”
          “No. You cannot tell what you do not know, and my business is certainly no one else’s.”
          “But someone may need to know. Your clients here, perhaps.”
          “I assure you, everyone who needs to know already knows. I just need you to take care of the store while I’m away, and make lots of sales. I am relying on you as I always do.”
          “Understood, sir, but...”
          “But?”
          “It’s only that the channel is very choppy today. Perhaps you would be well advised to delay your departure until it calms.”
          “I appreciate your concern, but that is quite impossible. My business is pressing, and I am needed at once, so the weather will just have to be ignored. Now, I must be on the boat when it departs, and I am under no illusion that that scoundrel Zaki will wait for me, even though I have already paid him. Is there anything else?”
          “No, sir.”
          “Very well, then. I must be off. Mind the store, and if they should catch that thief—”
          “Prosecute to the full extent of the law. I understand, sir.”

Nairobi 2:20 PM

          Mutala stepped out through the pretentiously ornate doors of the Nairobi Inn, looking up at the scudding low clouds that seemed to hasten past just above his head. Foul weather was a fact of life here. He was just glad it only took up two months on the calendar. Still, that was bad enough, bad enough that the blimps stopped flying at all, and used the break to perform their maintenance.
          No matter. There were still two, maybe three weeks of flying weather remaining, and that would be plenty of time to get Mr. Reinhard to Kisumu. There wasn’t the most remote possibility that his employer would wish to ride an ox cart over a hundred and fifty miles to the lakeshore town, and Mutala saw it as his duty to see that that didn’t happen. So it happened that he directed his steps around the corner to look east, toward the aerodrome, and was pleased to see the green-tinged gas envelope of the Leprechaun floating stationary above the docks. Treating himself to a rare smile, he headed in that direction.
          “Faith, an’ look who’s here, boys!” Captain Finney greeted him as he climbed the ramp to the dock. “It’s our old friend, Mutulu, is it?”
          Boxes were being loaded on Leprechaun’s deck, and he stepped aside to make room for a stevedore to pass with a wooden crate.
          “Mutala,” he replied.
          “Mutala, right!” Finney laughed. “Someday I’ll get used to the names ’round here, I swear I will.”
          “Cap’n’s too busy gettin’ used to the drinks ’round here,” Sean O’Reilly said. “What can we do for ye, Mutala?”
          “I need to reserve your vessel,” Mutala said to the captain.
          “Out of the question,” Finney said. “As you can see, we have a job we’re loadin’ now. You’re welcome to ride along if the direction suits ye, o’ course.”
          “Oh, it’s not for me, gentlemen, and it’s not today.”
          “What, then?”
          “I’m expecting my employer, a very important and wealthy man from Zanzibar, on the evening train, and he needs to get on to Kisumu more quickly than the three days it takes by coach. If you can be here tomorrow morning, I can make it worth your while.”
          “Well, see,” Finney said, “there’s the rub. We're takin’ this load up to Kisumu. By the time we get unloaded, it’ll be dark, an’ flyin’ in the dark in this sort o’ weather don’t seem to be a reasonable risk to be takin’.”
          “I don’t see the problem,” Mutala said. “I just made a trip with Kestrel where we flew all night and arrived precisely on the beach at Zanzibar by the light of dawn.”
          “Aye, well you’re welcome to wait for Kestrel, then. Miss Patience flies their boat, an’ that lass ain’t entirely right in the head in some respects. Ye want to ride with us, we’re strictly day trips only, see?”
          “Damn,” Mutala muttered. “All right, you get to Kisumu tonight and unload your cargo. If you leave there at first light, when could you be back here?”
          “What ye think, Patrick,” Finney called toward the pilot house, “six hours Kisumu to here?”
          “Sounds about right.”
          “S’pose we could be here by noon, then, but us leavin’ at first light, well, we’re for likin’ our beauty rest, ye see?”
          “Five pounds,” Mutala said, taking out his wallet.
          “How’s that?”
          “Five pounds if you’re back here by noon tomorrow.” He opened the wallet and started slowly taking out one-pound notes. “You get here by noon, the five is yours, and we pay for two passages. You don’t make it, I’ll be havin’ me fiver back, ye see?”
          “No need for all that, ye know,” Finney said, taking the five bills from Mutala’s hand. “We’ll be here. Turn in early tonight, boys! We fly with the dawn.”

Mombasa 10:00 PM

          The ride across to Bogomoyo had been abysmal, with the choppy sea in the channel threatening to swamp the low-sided boat with every swell. Reinhard had spent most of the trip doubled over the gunwales, his stomach evacuating itself with clockwork regularity. Having reached terra firma, he seriously considered taking a coach to Mombasa, but no, the activities hinted at in the coded letter didn't allow for such comforts. Alas, it was off of one boat and onto another, this one being a somewhat larger dhow participating in the tightly regulated coastal traffic between the British and Prussian colonies. There was nothing for it, but as he had stepped aboard this new wooden deck, he truly felt as though he understood what went through the mind of a man climbing the gallows.
          To be sure, there had been advantages. The boat was loaded with crated cargo, and the two overworked redcoats who met it in Mombasa well after 9:00 PM for its customs inspection had no time for its lone passenger, merely asking if he had anything to declare. Of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to try to bring contraband in himself, but being spared the inconvenience of having his baggage ransacked also spared him an hour’s wait.
          Once on the dock, a cabbie loaded his bags on a cart and took them to the cab while he stood by supervising; no sense giving these people an opportunity to rifle his belongings. Filling the small baggage area, and taking up two of the three seats, his luggage barely left him room to sit inside the vehicle.
          “Do you have a regular hotel, bwana?”
          “No, boy, I’m not going to a hotel. Take me to the train station.”
          “Very good, bwana, but the train does not depart until the morning.”
          “I’m not in the mood for an argument,” Reinhard said. “I intend to check my bags and purchase a ticket, if you must know. Perhaps then we can select a hotel.”
          “As bwana wishes. The train station, then.”
          He held the door for Reinhard to enter, then climbed on top and tapped up the aging horse; the trip would not be a quick one.
          The cab clattered through the streets of the ancient city, giving him views of quarter after quarter. A city of samples. The Arabs began it, the Portuguese had added to it, the Prussians had contributed their harsh architecture during their brief stay, and now British-style buildings had cropped up everywhere. It had to be the most eclectic city on the face of the earth that he rolled through in the growing darkness as lamp after lamp went out. The city was going to sleep. Well, all except the waterfront, a place that never slept, no matter the city, no matter the people.
          At length, the cab rolled to a halt in front of a typical English railway station. A train was already waiting at the platform, two freight cars just behind the engine, with a single passenger car attached to the rear. It seemed odd at first, that the freight should precede the passengers, but then he realized that the distance would give the coal smoke from the engine time to dissipate before it reached the passengers; if the English had one saving grace, they knew how to run a railroad.
          As the cabbie unloaded his bags, he stepped to the cage-front window. A light burned inside, and he could hear someone puttering just out of view. When he didn’t approach the window after a few moments, Reinhard loudly cleared his throat.
          “Sorry, sorry,” the clerk, a thin and elderly Englishman said as he approached the window. “Got a little busy back there. How can I help you this fine evening?”
          “I should like to check my bags to Nairobi, and purchase a ticket,” he replied.
          “Ticket to Nairobi?”
          “Does the train go somewhere else?”
          “No, no, of course not, but if you wanted to disembark at one of the farms along the way, we can accommodate you, that’s all.”
          “I see. All the way to Nairobi will be fine.”
          “All right. We only have one class, coach. It’s eight shillings one way.”
          “Very well,” Reinhard replied, counting out the coins. “And my bags?”
          “How many?”
          “Six.”
          “I see. Two bags are free. The rest we have to count as cargo.”
          “Fine. How much?”
          “One per bag, so four shillings more.”
          “Nice little racket you have going here,” Reinhard said, counting out more coins.
          “You’re welcome to take the stage,” the man said. “I sell tickets for that, too.”
          “I’ll just bet you do. Here is your money. Load the bags, please.”
          “Just leave them there. I’ll have one of the freight handlers see to them.”
          “Fine, fine. Is there a hotel nearby?”
          “We offer a dorm room for ticket holders. We wake you in plenty of time to dress and get aboard.”
          “Yes, and how much do you charge for that particular service?”
          “It’s free with the ticket. Of course, it isn’t much. A gentleman like yourself might prefer a hotel.”
          “No, your room will be fine. I cannot afford to miss the train.”
          “All right, fine, sir. Just go around to the end of the building,” he thrust his skinny arm through the cage, pointing, “and you’ll see a Dutch door with a night-light inside, and some cots. Pick one you like, and have a restful sleep. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”