Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [79]
“Go back to your daughter, fisherman,” said Sanders, “and tell her that white men do not marry black women – in my territory. And if she be, as you say, a witch, then there is punishment for that, as all the lands and people know.”
“Lord,” said the fisherman, “she speaks with the birds, and they tell her she will come to no harm.”
“She has not spoken with the right bird,” said Sanders grimly, and dismissed him.
It was the end of the palaver, and he rose a little stiffly, and walked forward, leaning over the rail and watching incuriously the broad river flowing to the sea. As he looked, there came into his zone of vision a long canoe, which he recognised, by its shape and the rhythmical action of the paddlers, as from headquarters. He lifted a pair of binoculars and scanned the oncoming craft, expecting to find Hamilton in the little leaf-roofed cabin at the stern.
“Jumping Moses!” said Sanders, and, putting down the glasses, he waited until the canoe drew alongside and Mr Pinto Fernandez, complete in grey top hat and somewhat soiled white spats, stepped on board.
“Mr Tibbetts, I presume?” said Pinto sternly.
Sanders smiled. “No, I am not Mr Tibbetts,” he said. “I am the Commissioner in these parts. What can I do for you, my man?”
“I wish to see Mr Tibbetts on a matter of delicacy and honour,” said Pinto glibly, and Sanders’ eyes narrowed.
“Take off your hat,” he said curtly; “you needn’t fear sunstroke. You are a coloured man, I see.”
“I am a Portuguese subject,” said Pinto with dignity, but obeyed.
Sanders looked at him for a very long time, “Now, will you please tell me the object of your visit?” he said softly.
“It is a matter for Mr Tibbetts’ ears alone.”
“It is nothing to do, by any chance, with a correspondence in which Mr Tibbetts has been engaged?” asked Sanders, and did not fail to observe the start of surprise. “Because there was a gentleman, if I remember rightly, in Nigeria, who had an indiscreet correspondence with a lady in Funchal, and was induced to part with a considerable sum of money,” said Sanders. “That fact came to me through official correspondence. What is your name?”
“Gonsalez,” said Pinto,
Sanders rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That isn’t the name – but I seem to remember your face,” he said. “I have seen a photograph somewhere – oh yes, your name is Pinto Fernandez, and you are wanted by the Nigerian police for embezzlement. Curiously enough” – he was speaking as though to himself – “I never connected you with the ingenious blackmailer, and I don’t suppose anybody else has.”
“I want to say, Mr Sanders,” said Pinto loudly, and slightly flustered, “that your Tibbetts has been corresponding with my foolish wife–”
Sanders stopped him with a gesture. “According to the police report I have had from Nigeria, that was the basis of your argument with another gentleman.”
He beckoned the watchful Abiboo. “Put this man in irons,” he said.
Pinto Fernandez had been in many tight corners, and he was a man of considerable initiative. Before the sergeant’s hand fell on his arm, he jumped to the taffrail and leapt the four or five feet which separated the Zaire from the bank. Before the Houssa could raise his rifle, he had plunged into the bush, leaving behind, as a souvenir of his presence, a grey topper and the nearly gold-headed walking-stick, which he carried as part of the insignia of his respectability.
He heard the sound of a shot and the whine and patter of a bullet as it flicked through the leaves of the trees, and sprinted along the narrow native track into the forest. He was no stranger to the wild lands, and had the bush instinct which led him unerringly to the broader native road that ran parallel with the river bank. In the early hours of the morning he came to a little clearing, and D’lama-m’popo, coming out of his hut, stood stock still at the