Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 4

Mombasa Sunday morning

          Just after 9:00 AM, and it was hot already. A native of the outback behind Brisbane, Jinx was accustomed to heat, but the humidity was already higher than she was used to, and had hours ahead to rise much higher. Tough beyond the influence of a bit of moisture in the air, she stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Queen's Royal Hotel and followed it around to the side to the open-air tavern run by Faraji. There were few patrons, the working crowd taking advantage of a chance to sleep late, and the tall man behind the bar had plenty of time to take in his new visitor.
          She was fairly ordinary in height and build. The European women who frequented this land tended to be solid and capable, and the only thing distinctive about this one standing outside in her soft white blouse and safari skirt was that she wasn’t known here. That was about to change, as having completed her assessment, she stepped into the two-sided room and approached the bar.
          “A pleasant morning to you, Missy,” the tall man behind the bar said by way of greeting. “How may I assist you?”
          “What do you have that’s pleasantly cold?” she asked, looking around with a general air of approval.
          “Ice,” he offered.
          She fixed him with narrowed eyes, then noticed the smile playing at the corners of his lips.
          “You are Faraji?” she asked; it wasn’t really a question.
          “It is so.”
          “People call me Jinx,” she said. “I am a friend of the crew of the Kestrel. We did a job together last year. Are they still in the area?”
          “Very much so, Missy. They have gone up-country, and have been gone for longer than usual, but I have no doubt that they will return soon.”
          “That’s good. What do you have that will push back against this heat, then?”
          “I have learned a drink that is very popular with the English. It is called a snakebite.”
          “What the hell?”
          “A strange name, I agree, but then it was taught to me by an Irishman, so perhaps it is not so strange.”
          “All right, I’ll bite, so to speak. What is it?”
          “It is a tumbler first filled halfway with cider at room temperature, then topped up with cold beer. We get excellent beer here, what with a Prussian colony just down the coast.”
          “I imagine you do. All right, I’ll take one, then.”
          He went to the end of the bar and busied himself with the ingredients while she took in the decor, an eclectic collection of items apparently gathered at random, from antelope heads to prize fight posters, Maasai spears, and elephant-tail fly swatters, each tacked up wherever there happened to be space on the yellowish stucco. Faraji returned and placed a glass of frothy brown liquid before her.
          “There you are, Missy, one snakebite. That will be one and two.”
          She fished in a pocket of her skirt and produced a ten-shilling coin which she laid on the bar, keeping her finger on it.
          “I won’t need any change if you can provide some information with the drink.”
          He leaned conspiratorially on the bar.
          “What is it the young miss would like to know?”
          “I’d like to know what you can tell me about Nairobi.”
          “There isn’t a great deal to tell,” he said as she sniffed cautiously at her drink. “A couple of years ago there was practically nothing there beyond a few native huts. Then the English decided that they would open the land to coffee plantations, and Nairobi became the spot to which they built the railroad. Supplies went up, coffee came back. Nairobi became a trading post. Now they have decided to push the railroad on to Kisumu up on the big lake. Rubies have been discovered in the hills behind, you see. So now, Nairobi is a little big town, filled with railroad workers, land speculators, would-be ruby miners, and those who would profit from all of them. Honest men have little business there. A dangerous place, but you look as if you can take care of yourself.”
          She smiled at that.
          “I get by. Is there no law at all, then?”
          “Just the redcoats, and what do they care if one wog steals from another? They are likely to look out for you though.”
          “Me?”
          “I am sorry, Missy. You sound as if you intend to go there. If you do, I recommend you make the British garrison aware of your presence, and stay off the streets at night. There are worse things than swindling afoot up there. I can hardly imagine a worse place to live.”
          “Or a better one, if you’re a criminal. I’ll need to get up there at some point. What’s the train ride like?”
          “Long and uncomfortable. The train leaves here every other morning. You travel all day, rocking on hard seats with nothing to eat but fruits and bread, and arrive at dusk. They service the train overnight, and the next morning, it makes the trip back.”
          “Sounds bloody awful. What about the airships?”
          “They keep to no schedule. If you find one at the aerodrome, they will probably take you as a passenger, but they are very expensive, and not much faster. At least you can move around, though, and some of them even have beds.”
          “You’ve earned your tip, Faraji,” she said, taking her finger off the coin. “Very useful information. Do you poach eggs here?”

Nairobi 5:30 PM

          The sun was low on the horizon when Kestrel’s lines went over, and dusk was falling by the time everything was secured and her crew was ready to begin their activities. They took note of the flat-decked Leprechaun and the twin gas bags of the Nyumbu, both moored and loading cargo. With Kestrel secured, there was only one dock remaining, but Monroe had no time to speculate on the transportation boom.
          “David,” he instructed, “I want you to take Bakari and pay a visit to the Wildebeest Bar.”
          “Think we might get a spot of chow first?”
          “Rufo serves food there.”
          “Sure, monkey tails and lizard gizzards.”
          “All right, David, do what’s necessary, but get to the Wildebeest. A large number of locals spend their earnings in there, and it’s as likely a place as any to hear something.”
          “Right, Cap’n. What’ll you be doing?”
          “I owe Patience a dinner. Thought I might take her to Shanee’s.”
          “Oh, well, you see how he does us, Bakari? Bring your spear, we'll probably have to kill our dinner ourselves.”
          The big African laughed, though a bit uncertainly.
          “You raise a good point, David. Go armed. Don’t be obtrusive about it. We’re looking for the fly on the wall effect, but if anyone gets suspicious, well, we’ve already seen what these people are capable of.”
          “That’s a certainty. You got a gun, Bakari?”
          “No. They are too difficult to reload with only one hand.”
          “What’ll you bring, then?”
          “Knives and my assegai will be plenty.”
          “Please yourself. How about you, Patty? You never did replace the gun you lost at Malinde. Do you need to borrow one?”
          “No. As you boys like to say, I am a weapon.”
          “Wear your knife," Monroe told her. "We’re going to have to get you armed at some point.”
          “As you so often say, Captain, that costs money. Anyway, I always stay on the ship while you lot manage the interesting matters, so what do I need a gun for?”
          “Let’s hope you don’t. Everyone get your gear, and let’s get started.”

Nairobi 6:00 PM

          There wasn't much for Monroe and Hobbs to discuss on the short walk to Shanee’s. Their plan was simply to keep their ears open while they had dinner; most life events don't follow the plan.
          “Oy, there’s me future bride!” Sean O’Reilly, the big deckhand of the Leprechaun boomed as they stepped through the open door. The rival crew greeted them loudly, and invited them to join them as Nolan Fagan and Patrick Dobbs began moving the next table over to join theirs.
          “Surprised to see you lot,” Justin Finney, their captain, greeted them. “Word is, you’re out o’ the business, then.”
          “Just briefly. We’re working on a project for a friend.”
          “Oh, we’re not objectin’, mind. We’re rakin’ in a windfall workin’ the jobs you've been turnin’ down.”
          Shanee appeared at the rearranged tables as soon as everyone seated themselves.
          “This is nice,” the middle aged African woman scolded. “Invite people into my home, and you start moving the furniture.”
          “Hello, Shanee,” Patience greeted her. “How have you been?”
          “Life is good. All one needs is money. Will it be the usual for you and your nahoda?”
          “Yes, thank you,” Hobbs replied.
          “Yes, me as well,” Monroe added.
          “Coming right up.” She waved a finger at the Irishmen. “I want those tables put back as they were before you leave here!”
          “You have a ‘usual?’” Finney asked. “How bloody long have you been here, anyway?”
          “Too long, by my lights,” Monroe replied. “Still, what’s a washed up old balloon captain going to do, if not this?”
          “They’ve got balloons in Europe, you know.”
          “They also have snobbish aristocrats in Europe. Kenya will do me fine. Listen, Finney, we need to ask you boys something in complete confidentiality.”
          “All right, shoot.”
          “I’m serious. I want your word that you won’t go off telling everyone you meet what we’re doing.”
          “All right, you’ll have it. Am I right, boyos?”
          There was a chorus of assent from the other crew.
          “All right. Do you remember that young gentleman that used to ride with us?”
          “Yeah. Seemed really out o’ place somehow.”
          “That’s right. His name was Nicholas Ellsworth, and he’s a doctor of botany.”
          “What’s that,” O’Reilly asked, “boats?”
          “Plants, ye lummox,” Fagan replied.
          “How should I know?”
          “Quiet, you two,” Finney told them. “Go on.”
          “He came to Africa to study the plants here, and turn them into medicines. Well, he hooked up with a Maasai shaman to open an herb shop.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, seeking a measure of privacy in the crowded restaurant. “A couple of nights ago, two Africans came late into his shop. They demanded a package of some sort, and when he didn’t know what they were talking about, they beat him nearly to death and ransacked his shop. Odd thing is, they didn't take anything, not even the money from the cash box. It was on the floor along with practically everything else in the shop.”
          “But even though they didn’t want it, they took it out,” Finney mused. “They were looking for something specific, and if they thought their package was in there, it must o’ been pretty small.”
          “That’s a good point,” Monroe said, “though I'm not sure it helps at all.”
          “Some kind o’ messengers. Wrong address, it sounds like.”
          “That’s what we’re thinking as well.”
          “We’ve heard a few rumors. Didn’t think much of ’em. This is the frontier, o’ course, new wealth and all that, and wealth seems to attract crooks looking for easy money.”
          “What are these rumors you’ve been hearing?”
          There was a break in the conversation while Shanee brought their food, then Monroe asked again.
          “Nothin’ ye could really use as evidence.”
          “No, rumors never are.”
          “No. Still, prices are up a bit, the workers have gone a bit surly, people are a bit less free with their talk, that sort o’ thing.”
          “What do you think it means?”
          “Well, maybe nothin’, but back in the old country, sometimes a small town would come into money sudden like. Some new little industry would spring up, or they’d find deposits of some useful commodity, didn't matter what. Somethin’ would change, like say, findin’ rubies, if ye get me drift.”
          “I do.”
          “Well then, lots o’ times, some big player would arise. Sometimes he’d come from outside, other times, he’d been there all along, dormant like. He brings on some muscle and starts chargin’ people a sort of tax for the right to do business right in their own homes. Sometimes he sells insurance against accidents. If ye don’t buy the insurance, ye have an accident. If ye try to get the authorities to help, he makes an example of ye. Pretty quick, no one’s interested in tryin’ to get help any more. Easier to just pay, and live on what’s left.”
          “Sounds like a tong,” Monroe said. “These men were Africans.”
          “And tong sounds Chinese,” Finney replied. “I never been to China, but I don’t imagine anyone has the market cornered when it comes to stealin’ the fruits of another man’s labor.”
          “That’s true enough.”
          “Here’s what ye don't want to lose sight of, Monroe. Nobody’s told me this is what’s happenin’. All what I've just told ye is observations, my opinion based on me own experience. I could be as far from the truth as the moon is from Manchester.”
          “And you could be spot on. You've certainly given us some things to think about.”
          The conversation continued with the usual aeronauts’ shop talk, weather, handling techniques, where the best cargos were to be found, and so on. The Irishmen finished their meal, rearranged the furniture, and took their leave. Shanee came over to see if they needed anything else, and to impart a bit more information.
          “You must keep your voices down, and be careful who you talk to,” she said.
          “You heard?”
          “Someone always hears when you speak in public. There is a new type of criminal in town, organized, coordinated, and you don't know who might be part of their organization. Asking the wrong questions when the wrong person is listening could get you killed.”
          “That’s been tried before,” Monroe said.
          “Recently,” Hobbs added.
          “Not by these men. I tell you again, be careful.”

Mombasa 8:00 PM

          Johnny Two-Fives had reason to feel conspicuous. Half Cherokee, half Caucasian, he had spent his life in America as a “breed,” a worthless thing neither completely white nor completely Indian, and therefore fit to be neither. If he expected to be treated that way when he pushed open the stained-glass door of the Drunken Monkey, he was pleasantly disappointed. The boisterous evening crowd consisted of Europeans, Africans, Chinese, Arabs, Indians, and a couple of men in garbs that he had never seen. He stepped to a tiny space at the bar and, not wanting to get drunk, ordered an ale. He paid, picked up the flagon, and made his way to a table in back with a vacant chair across from two men in Arab clothing.
          “This taken?” he asked, forcing his craggy face into as pleasant an expression as it was possible for him to wear.
          “No, effendi,” one of them replied. “Please, be a seat.”
          Barely spoke English, Two-Fives instantly assessed. Probably here to work on the railroad. Laborers. Simple, uneducated.
          “Thanks,” he said, taking his place at the table. “You men locals?”
          They both looked at him then at each other, obviously not understanding.
          “Been here a long time?”
          “Ah,” one of them said. “Four months myself. Come down to meet cousin Nasim. We work on streets together.”
          “Oh, a family reunion, then?”
          Both men nodded, smiling.
          “I’m looking for a cousin of my own. He left a couple of years back, said he was coming out here to farm coffee, or some such. Name’s Charlie Bender. Ever hear of him?”
          The two men exchanged that puzzled look again before the spokesman answered.
          “No, effendi. I am sorry, I have never heard that name, but I have not been here such a long time myself.”
          “Too bad. I really want to find him. See, his pa, my uncle, died last spring, and left him a sizeable sum of money.” The story didn’t sound right to his own ear, so he changed it even as he was telling it. “Left us both a lot of money, but in order to get mine, I have to find his son and make sure he gets his first. You understand.”
          “Oh, yes, effendi. Family relations can be quite complicated.”
          “Maybe you’ve seen him.”
          Two-Fives took the sanitized wanted poster from his pocket, unfolded it, and pushed it across to the two men. They studied it and exchanged a few words in their native tongue before Nasir shook his head in the negative. The speaker wasn’t so quick to dismiss it.
          “I believe I have seen this man around town, but I know nothing of him.”
          Had Two-Fives been a setter, he would have frozen on point.
          “Mr. Blaine,” the Arab called to a nearby table where a group of European laborers was laughing over jokes and tales. “Mr. Blaine!”
          “What do you want?” a heavy-set dock worker on the opposite side snarled.
          “Do you know this man?” He held up the poster.
          “How the hell should I know? Pass it over here. Drew!” he added to a colleague, and a man on the near side with his back to them turned and snatched the paper, passing it to Blaine.
          “Looks familiar,” Blaine said hesitantly.
          “Oh, I know him,” the man beside him shouted as he looked over Blaine’s shoulder. “That’s Dave Smith. Flies on the Kestrel with Miss Patience and them.”
          “The Kestrel? What's that?”
          “One o’ those blimps that moves cargo out beyond the rails. They’re all in and out of here every few days.”
          “When are they due back, you know?”
          “Nah. They don’t run on a schedule. Everywhere they land, they try to pick up their next job. No rhyme nor reason to it.”
          “But they’re not here now?”
          “No. There’s an aerodrome up north of town where they all tie up when they’re here. I think that crew takes their ease at Faraji’s”
          “Faraji’s?”
          “Yeah. It’s a pub and restaurant built into the Old Vic.”
          Two-Fives raised his eyebrows at that.
          “The Queen’s Royal Hotel. Over on the west side. Everybody knows it, they’ll direct you if you ask.”
          “Much obliged,” Two-Fives replied, draining his ale and rising to go. “Let me buy you gents your next round.”
          He fished in his pocket, then leaned over Drew’s shoulder and plopped a neat stack of four five-shilling coins down on the table. The longshoremen were drinking his health as he walked out the door.

Nairobi 10:30 PM

          Late Sunday night was just about the only time that Nairobi calmed down, and that served Mutala’s purposes nicely. Dr. Mitchell Farnsworth was easy enough to locate by the huge molar suspended on a metal bracket in front of his practice. It was located on a quiet back street, and that served Mutala even better. He tried the door, and not surprisingly found it locked with a simple pin-tumbler installation designed to keep an honest man honest. Untroubled by such mundane considerations, Mutala drew a thin wire from the lining of his vest, applied it to the lock, and as quickly as if he had a key, was inside the doctor’s waiting room.
          This was an austere place where patients anticipating their likely painful procedures could compose their thoughts and prepare for the ordeal to come. Hard-backed chairs resided against the walls, interspersed with glass-fronted cabinets displaying curios collected over a career on the frontier. Most of them were Chinese, Mutala assumed, or least Asian, brass bells, ceramic Buddhas, ornate glass censers, and the like, but a few African items had begun to enter the collection. Mutala noted these items only as an aide to understanding the man who collected them, and moved into his examining room.
          The atmosphere here was part modern medicine, part medieval torture chamber. An articulated chair stood in the center of the room, one on which the subject could be maneuvered into various positions and attitudes, presumably while having his or her sensitive mouth, gums, and teeth assailed with the instruments and chemicals in the glass cases to the side. Taps and a hose brought water to the chair, and a drain in the floor allowed egress.
          To wash away the blood? Mutala wondered, and imagined that he could come to like this man.
          But now wasn’t the time.
          Mutala was here to get a simple package from the doctor. He didn't know what was in it, and didn’t care; that wasn’t his concern. Behind a partition in a back corner, he found the bottom of a flight of stairs, and followed them to the second floor. Coming up in a living room of sorts, he listened for a moment until he identified the deep rhythmic breathing of a person in slumber, and moved to the door from which it came. There in his bed laid a man at the back end of youth, mid-thirties, perhaps, old enough to have been around and achieved some experience, still young enough to be active and vigorous. Mutala almost regretted the shock he was about to administer.
          Almost.
          “Doctor!” he called loudly, simultaneously rapping his knuckles on the door frame.
          The man in the bed started, jerked, trying to wake up with only limited success.
          “Doctor!” Mutala shouted more loudly.
          “What? Who the hell are you?”
          Struggling toward consciousness, the doctor fumbled on the headboard, and produced a large and lethal-looking pistol. He had barely begun to aim it when Mutala, suddenly at his bedside, snatched it from his hand.
          “That is not very social, Doctor,” he admonished, uncocking the pistol and thrusting it into his belt. “We have business, you and I, which we cannot conduct if you force me to kill you.”
          “What business?” the doctor demanded, finally reaching full wakefulness. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
          “Ah, good, you are ready to talk now. You and I work for the same employer, and he is not a patient man.”
          “I’m a doctor, sir! I work for myself.”
          “You may believe that if it pleases you, but the fact is that you went to work for Mr. Reinhard the moment you took his coin, and if you don’t think that’s true, try to stop, and see what happens.”
          “Here, you can’t come into my home and threaten me!”
          “I never threaten, Doctor, I promise. You are holding a package for Mr. Reinhard. I am his messenger. Give me the package, and I will be on my way. Trifle with me at your peril.”
          “Now, now, look,” Farnsworth stammered, unnerved and frightened by this man, “the package hasn’t arrived.”
          “I warned you not to trifle with me.”
          “I’m not the messenger! I don’t control him, I just accept items from someone from time to time, and pass them on to someone else. What you seek isn’t here. The courier is late, maybe dead. Anything might have happened to him!”
          “Or you might be thinking of going into business for yourself. A sale to the highest bidder, perhaps?”
          “That would be stupid!”
          “I agree.”
          “This Reinhard, whoever you say he is, pays me handsomely to hold items for him. He doubles my salary for nothing more than serving as a drop box. Why would I want to risk that on speculation? A bird in the hand and all that, you know,” he finished with a nervous smile.
          Mutala realized his error at once; Farnsworth hadn’t known Reinhard’s identity! He would have to consider eliminating this loose end when he returned for the package.
          “That is a sensible outlook. I will give you the benefit of the doubt, though only because the package is of greater value to Mr. Reinhard than your head. I will be back tomorrow night, same time. You will have the package, or Mr. Reinhard will have your head after all. Sleep well, doctor.”
          Mutala faded back from the bed and started to turn into the living space.
          “Wait,” Farnsworth called to him. “My pistol.”
          “I will leave it on your chair downstairs. And doctor, if you are thinking about using it on me when I come back tomorrow, your death will be long and painful.”
          The man, for he had not disclosed his name, faded into the shadows and departed soundlessly, save for the one step on the stairs that creaked. Farnsworth waited breathlessly in the dark until he couldn't stand it anymore, then got out of his bed, pulled on a robe, and made his way downstairs. There on the examining chair was his pistol, unloaded, and his visitor was nowhere to be found. He had heard no sound of door or window. The man might have been a ghost.