Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [55]
“That makes it more understandable,” said Hamilton. “You tried to write a fairy story. Well, you succeeded. But you’re showing up the service, Bones. An officer in these territories ought at least to know that the okapi is something between a donkey and a zebra, and that he wouldn’t show fight even to a mouse.”
He picked up another newspaper.
“Who sends you these infernal things?” asked Bones irritably. “Bless my jolly old life,” he added a little incoherently, “is there nothing sacred, nothing private? Can’t a fellow–”
“There’s nothing sacred about the twopence I paid for this newspaper,” said Hamilton. He opened the pages with exasperating leisure, and Bones writhed. “Here is the second part of the serial. I won’t read it all. It is headed” – he glanced at the top of the column – “A Fight with Vampires.”
“Don’t let’s have any unpleasantness,” said Bones, but Hamilton was not to be denied.
“This is the bit I like best”
“‘At night I was awakened–’
“By the way, they’ve corrected your spelling, I observe –
“‘ – by a shrill, whistling sound and a sense of keen pain in my toe. Looking up, I saw a huge, shadowy shape floating at the foot of my bed. It was a vampire! Not daring to move, I watched, fascinated, the hideous animal–’”
“I should have said ‘bird,’” murmured Bones, “or perhaps ‘reptile’.”
“Or ‘fish’,” suggested Hamilton. “But don’t interrupt.
“‘Its baleful eyes were fixed on me like two green moons! I reached out my hand stealthily–’”
“I hope they’ve only put two l’s in ‘stealthily,’” said Bones with a cough.
“‘I reached out my hand stealthily,’” Hamilton went on, ‘“and seized a pistol that lay on the bedside table! It was not loaded! What should I do? With all my strength I hurled myself upon the dreadful insect–’”
It was Sanders’ long chuckle of delight which interrupted the reading. “Bones, you’re really wonderful,” he said, as he came forward and pulled up a chair. “I presume it was our visit to the Isle of Bats which inspired that classic.”
In the Middle River, four days’ steaming from headquarters, is a long island where the bats live by day, hanging in huge clusters, not by the thousand but by the million; and Bones and he had spent an eerie evening watching these things of the night wake to life.
“The question is,” said Hamilton as he folded the paper, “is or is not a man who writes that kind of stuff a natural liar; and has or has not Bones the Isisi mind?”
“The Isisi mind is the mind of a poet, Bones,” said Sanders, “and if I were you I’d plead guilty. Whilst on the subject of gay deceivers, may I mention that I shall want you to go up into the Inner N’gombi tomorrow perhaps – perhaps not for a week or so? There is a brand new cult come into being, and one Bobolara is its prophet.”
Hamilton looked up quickly. “Leopards?”
Sanders shook his head. “Not Leopards this time. It is something with a little witch doctorery in it, and I want it checked before it goes any farther. A healer of healers is amongst us, and he has made his appearance, of all places in the world, in the Inner N’gombi.”
There was a time when the Inner N’gombi were a thorn in the flesh of administration. Loyal to none, responsible only to themselves, they took toll of their neighbours with freedom and violence. There had been a hanging or two, a few beatings, a chief deposed to the Village of Irons, a headman hunted into the bush, a village or two burnt, before Lujaga, son of Lofuru, had been elevated to the chieftain’s rank, and thereafter all trouble had ceased. It is true that his neighbours complained of midnight raids upon their property; a few women had disappeared from the Ochori; and Bosambo had carried his spears to the border. But Lujaga, summoned to palaver, had given a very frank explanation.
“Lord,” he said, “my people are a haughty and warlike people, who have never been yoked. And there are little chiefs