Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [54]
Bones spent the night in a dark and smelly hut, illuminated only by a faint red glow from his developing lamp. But though he covered himself from head to foot in hypo, though he dipped and dipped the film until his arm ached, and conformed faithfully to every law contained in the book of instructions, he produced nothing but a succession of little black oblong blobs.
“Most extrordinary, dear old boy,” he said miserably. “Most amazing! Can’t understand it, dear old thing. There’s a fortune gone west, ab-so-lutely west!”
“Who turned the handle?”
“Ahmet. I taught him, dear old Ham. Taught him, and he did what I told him to do. That’s the horribly hideous part of it.”
For all his faith in Ahmet, he interviewed that gentleman.
“You didn’t open the little door, of course, Ahmet? The-door-that-must-never-be-opened?” he asked solemnly.
“Lord, I opened it, but only for a little time, whilst I looked for some pictures which I had improperly taken, without your lordship’s knowledge. But they were not there.”
“In daylight did you open it?” asked Bones in horror.
“No, lord, in sunlight,” said Ahmet, “but there was nothing there, as I have told your lordship, only a yellow ribbon and no pictures!”
THE HEALER
Men lie with a certain transparent simplicity in the lands that border the Great River. Their falsehoods are easily detected, and are less falsehoods than inventions, being so elaborated and painted in such primitive colours that no man is deceived.
For they lie as children lie, about remarkable things and happenings that could not be: such as two-headed dogs that spit smoke, and trees that walk about, and little bees that fall in love with beautiful maidens. If they lie for safety or business purposes, they do so haltingly or sullenly, as the circumstances command, and are to be brought to the frank truth with a sharp word.
Such a liar as Lujaga, the petty chief of the Inner N’gombi, was a rarity, and he was one of three men who, in twenty years, completely deceived Mr Commissioner Sanders.
And talking of liars…
“There’s a lot about you, Bones,” said Hamilton, “that reminds me of the Isisi.”
“Dear old officer,” murmured Bones reproachfully, “why compare a jolly old comrade to the indigenous native?”
“I was thinking more particularly of your interesting contribution to the Guildford Times,” said Hamilton.
He was sitting on the verandah after tiffin, smoking a lazy cigar, and as he stretched out his arm, he picked up from the floor a newspaper that had come by the mail. Bones glanced at the title and shuffled his big feet uncomfortably.
“Dear old officer,” he pleaded, “if you’re going to spring on me a little flight of fancy, a jolly old jeu d’esprit, so to speak–”
“I have been reading your account of how you chased the wild okapi through the forest,” said Hamilton relentlessly, “and how, when it was at bay, it turned and snarled at you. The okapi doesn’t live in this country anyway, and if he did he wouldn’t snarl. He would neigh or he would bray. Possibly he would bray, recognising you as a man and a brother, but he would not snarl or, as you suggest, show his fangs. He hasn’t any fangs to show, though I dare say he could pick up a few in his travels if he had the mind of a collector.”
Sanders strolled out at that moment and stood, an interested listener, in the doorway.
“Listen to this,” said Hamilton.
“Dear old Ham,” begged the agitated Bones, “why pursue the jolly old subject?”
“Listen to this,” said the remorseless Hamilton.
“‘As the okapi swung round and faced me I reached for my rifle! It was not there! My terrified native bearer had bolted! I was alone in the jungle with a fierce okapi! He leapt at my throat! I dodged him! In that moment all my past life swam before my eyes! Whipping out my revolver, I fired at him twice! He fell lifeless at my feet!’”
Hamilton glared over the top of the paper. “Liar!” he said simply.
“Dear old sceptical superior,” said Bones, speaking with a certain dignity,