Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [6]
Something in Bones’ face attracted his superior’s attention.
“Bones! You saw him?”
“Did I, dear old Ham? I’m blessed if I remember. What with sitting up all night with your jolly old hens–”
“You saw him, and I’ll bet your infernal passion for educating the unfortunate native is responsible. What branch of study did you take?”
Bones rose from the table and folded his serviette deliberately.
“If every time a naughty old chief disappears you’re going to lay it at my door, sir,” he said bitterly, “and if every – ” Suddenly he stopped and his tone changed. “What about sending me up to nose around, excellency? I don’t want to praise myself, but I’ve got a gift for that sort of work. Things you wouldn’t notice, dear old bat-eyed superior, I should spot in a minute. You know me, excellency – when you lost your cigarette holder, who found it?”
“I did,” said Hamilton.
“But who put you on the track, dear old Ham? Who was it said, ‘Did you look in your pocket?’ Me! I bet I’d unearth this mystery in two twinks! It’s observation that does it. A little bit of cigar ash, a torn-up letter. Things an ordinary johnny wouldn’t think of looking for…”
“I don’t think you’ll find either cigar ash or letters in the Ochori forest,” said Sanders drily, “but I do feel that this matter should be inquired into. Take the Wiggle, Bones, and go to the village. You might pick up Bosambo on your way. Leave the appointment of a new chief to him. And be careful! These folk of the north are queer and clannish. Even Bosambo has never quite mastered them. You may be successful.”
Bones smiled indulgently at the word “may.”
Bosambo, Paramount Chief of the Ochori, held a palaver of all his fifty chiefs, for there was trouble in the land. The crops had unexpectedly failed, goat sickness had made a mysterious and devastating appearance, and three considerable tribes had refused tribute, and had sent defiant messages to their lord. There was talk of a confederation between these, and that could only mean war. Moreover, a collector of taxes had been beaten to death, and another, Bosambo suspected, had been drowned. Bosambo, wearing his cloak of monkey tails and in his hand his three short killing spears, listened hour after hour as speaker after speaker arose and addressed him. Then at last spoke M’febi, a chief and suspected witch-doctor. All the day he had been waiting for this man, the most powerful of his subjects and the most antagonistic.
“Lord Bosambo, you have heard,” said M’febi, in a deathly silence, “from one end of the land to the other there is sickness, and none who lie down at night know what the sun will show. Now I know, being a wise man and acquainted with mysteries, that there is a reason, and this I tell you. The Fearful Word has been spoken, and the Swamp Ghost is abroad.”
A murmur of horror ran through the assembly. Men rubbed their hands in the dust and smeared their arms hurriedly.
“Because of this,” M’febi went on, gratified by the sensation he had caused, “our crops are rotting and our goats lie down and die, making noises in their throats. Now you, Bosambo, who are so clever and are loved by Sandi, you shall show us a magic that will make the corn rise up and the goats become lively.”
Bosambo raised his hand to check further eloquence.
“M’febi,” he said, “am I a magician? Can I make the dead live? Say this.”
M’febi hesitated, sensing danger. “Lord, you are not,” he admitted.
“It was good you said that,” said Bosambo ominously, “for if I were such a magician I should have speared you where you stand, knowing that I could bring you to life again. As for the Fearful Word, that is your story. And, I tell you, M’febi, that I have a quick way with men and chiefs who bring me ghosts when I ask for rubber. They also make noises in their throats and sleep on their faces. I will have tribute, for that is my due and the due of Sandi and his