Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [30]
“The guard is present, lord,” the sergeant said in queer, guttural Arabic.
“Let it be dismissed, Ahmet,” said Bones. “Now bring me the prisoner.”
There came, blinking into the light from the dark prison hut, a man, at the sight of whom Lieutenant Tibbetts’ jaw dropped – and it took a lot (as Bones often said) to surprise him.
“Bosambo!” he squeaked in English. “Goodness gracious heavens alive, well I’m dashed!”
The big man grinned sheepishly. “I be damned, sah, too, one time. I make ’um foolish all time, Bonesi.”
“Not so much of that Bonesi,” said Bones severely. “You naughty old reveller – you disgustin’ carousin’ old sinner. Really, really, Bosambo, I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself!”
Bosambo did not look particularly ashamed, although he, king and paramount chief of the Ochori, had suffered the indignity of spending a night in the guard-room, and had been carried there in the middle of the night by four stalwart Houssas.
“I no be drunken, Tibbetti,” he began earnestly. “I be good Matt’ew Marki Luki Christian–”
“Monkey talk,” said Bones unpleasantly, and this time he spoke in Bomongo.
“Lord,” said Bosambo in that language, “I came by night because of certain news which my spies brought to me. And because I came secretly, not wishing your lordship’s soldiers to know me, I did not tell them who I was when they fell upon me as I crossed the square. And if I fought them, using terrible words, there was this reason, for I thought that in the night I could break away and go my way.”
Bones went up to the residency, leaving the “prisoner” in his own hut. Hamilton, shaving (in his pyjamas) on the verandah, saw the martial figure – he would have heard the slap of the sword anyway – and suspended operations.
“Morning, Mars – is there a war on?” he demanded, returning to his grimaces at the mirror and the manipulation of his safety razor.
“Dear old officer, there are certain aspects of military service that no self-respecting old commander jests about,” said Bones testily. “If I hadn’t turned out in jolly old regimentals, you would have kicked.”
“Well, did you court-martial and shoot the noisy devil?” asked Hamilton. “He woke Sanders – who was he and what was he doing? Abiboo said it was somebody trying to break into the residency.”
“It was Bosambo,” said Bones, with dramatic emphasis.
He was entitled to enjoy the sensation his words created.
“Bo – sambo? Bosh!”
Bones raised his eyebrows and closed his eyes. “Very good, jolly old sir. I have done my duty: I can do no more,” he said.
“Bosambo!”
Sanders stood in the doorway, and Bones saluted.
“Yes, excellency: Bosambo. I had a suspicion it was he last night.”
“You said that you knew it was a Lower River fisherman who had got square face,” began Hamilton, but Sanders’ hand called for silence.
“Send him here, Bones,” he said quietly.
Bosambo arrived, more self-possessed than Bones thought was decent.
“Lord, it is true that it was I who came like a thief, desiring secret word with you,” he said frankly, “for this is a big thing that I had to tell, and my stomach was troubled.”
“You have brought me much news before,” said Sanders sternly, “yet you came in daylight and met me in palaver. Now you come like an Isisi robber, and my soldiers have shamed you, and therefore have shamed me and my king. Are there no grey birds or swift messengers?”
“Lord, there are all these,” said Bosambo calmly. “One grey pigeon came to me last week, and about his little red leg was a book[1] which said that I must not seek Dhoti any more, as he had gone a long journey into the Lower Isisi.”
Sanders sat up in his chair with a start. “Man, what are you saying? I sent no message but about your taxation.”
Bosambo fumbled in his leopard-skin robe and took out a folded paper, handing it to the Commissioner without a word.
Sanders read and frowned. “I did not send this message,