Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur - Страница 39
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It was an exquisite miniature carving of a young girl and an old man.
The beautiful child sat on the old man's lap staring with a daughter's adoration into his noble, lined and bearded face. Each tiny detail had been executed three hundred years ago by one of the great artists of the Tokugawa dynasty. The ivory had been polished by the touch of human fingers until it glowed like amber. Only when the group was inverted was it disclosed that beneath their flowing robes the couple were naked and that the old man's member was buried almost to the hilt between the girl's thighs.
The humour of it appealed to Cheng. It was one of his favourite pieces from all his vast collection, and he caressed it now between thumb and forefinger like a worry bead. As always, the silken feet of the ivory soothed him and encouraged him to think more clearly.
He had been expecting to hear more of Daniel Armstrong, but this had not lessened the shock of Chetti Singh's message.
The Sikh's questions aroused old doubts and for the thousandth time he went over all the precautions that he had taken.
After leaving the headquarters camp at Chiwewe he had not noticed the blood on his shoes and clothing until Daniel Armstrong had drawn his attention to it. This evidence of his guilt had preyed on his mind for the rest of that arduous journey out of the Zambezi valley. When at last they reached the main highway and found Chetti Sing waiting at the rendezvous, e had confided his worries to the Sikh and showed him the stains on his clothing.
You were not supposed to go near the scene of the killing.
That was foolish, never mind. I had to make sure the job was done, and it was just as well I did. The warden was still alive. You will have to burn that clothing. It was unlikely that there would be other traffic this late at night but they took no chances. They reversed the trucks well off the highway and transferred the ivory from the Parks trucks to Chetti Singh's pantechnicon behind a screen of trees. Even with Chetti Singh's gang of men to assist the two drivers, the removal took almost two hours. It was a huge quantity of ivory to move.
In the meantime Chetti Singh watched Cheng build a small fire. When it was burning hotly the ambassador stripped to his underwear. As he dressed again in fresh clothing from his luggage, Chetti Singh squatted beside the fire and burned all the soiled items. The rubber soles of the training shoes flared up fiercely when they caught. He used a stick to poke the charred scraps into the centre of the flames and make certain that they were reduced to fine ash. There will still be abundant traces of blood in the Mercedes, Chetti pointed out as he stood up from it. On the or, on the accelerator and brake pedals. He removed the floor mat and the rubber covers from the control pedals and burned these as well. The stink of the black smoke made his eyes run, but still he was not satisfied. We will have to get rid of that car.
He told Cheng what to do. I will arrange the rest of it. Cheng was the first to leave the rendezvous. Even before the transfer of the ivory to the Sikh's truck was complete he was on his way back to Harare.
He drove fast, as though trying to escape from his involvement with the raid. The reaction was setting in now. It was the same after one of his sexual pantomimes in the Myrtle Blossom Lady's house in Taipei.
Afterwards he felt shaky and nauseated.
He always promised himself it would never happen again.
The ambassador's residence was one of many large sprawling; colonial buildings in the avenues near the golf club. He reached it well after midnight. He went directly to his own bedroom suite. He had arranged for his wife and the children to fly back to Taiwan the previous week to stay with her family. He was alone in the residence.
He stripped once again and, even though he had not worn it at the scene, placed all his clothing in a plastic bag. He was concerned that the faintest trace of blood might linger upon it.
Then he showered. He stood under the steaming spray for almost half an hour, shampooing his hair twice and scrubbing his hands and fingernails with a stiff brush.
When he felt that he had washed away every last trace of blood or gunpowder, he dressed in fresh clothing from his dressing-room and carried the plastic bag containing his clothing; back to the Mercedes parked in the residence garage. He placed the plastic bag in the boot beside his canvas grip. He was anxious to get rid of every single item that he had taken to Chiwewe, even his binoculars and his bird-book.
He reversed the Mercedes out of the garage and parked it in the front driveway of the residence. The gates were open and he left the key in the ignition.
Although it was by now after two in the morning and it had been a day and night filled with activity and intense nervous strain Cheng could not sleep. In a brocaded silk robe he paced his bedroom restlessly, until he heard the starter of the Mercedes whirl. He switched off the bedside lamp and darted to the window overlooking the front driveway.
He was just in time to see his car, with darkened headlights, pull out of the driveway and turn into the deserted street. He sighed with relief and at last went to bed.
As he composed himself to sleep he thought how swiftly Chetti Singh had arranged it. Chetti Singh's son managed the, Harare branch of the family interests. He was almost as astute and reliable as his father.
In the morning, after breakfast, Cheng telephoned the police and reported the theft of the Mercedes. They found it twenty-four hours later, out near Hatfield on the way to the airport. It had been stripped of tires. and engine and set on fire. The fuel tank had exploded and nothing was left of the vehicle but the soot-blackened carapace. He knew that the insurance company would pay out in full, without too much delay or protest.
The following morning an anonymous caller on Cheng's unlisted line spoke without introduction or explanation. Look at page five of today's Herald, he said, then broke the connection, but the accent had been Asian, very similar to Chetti Singh's manner of speech.
Cheng found the article at the foot of the page. It was six lines under an insignificant heading, Stabbed in Drunken Brawl. Gomo Chisonda, a ranger employed by the National Parks Service, had been stabbed to death by an unknown assailant during an argument in a township beerball.
The next day the same anonymous caller told Cheng, Page seven. This time Cheng was certain that he recognised the voice of Chetti Singh's son.
The heading of the newspaper article was Railway Accident, squib read, The body of David Shiri, an off-duty and the ranger in the National Parks Service, was found on the railway line near Hartley.
The dead man had a high blood alcohol level. A spokesman for Zimbabwe Railways warned the public of the danger of using unguarded crossings.
This- is the fourth accident of the same kind on the Hartley line since the beginning of the year. As Chetti Singh had promised, there were no longer any surviving witnesses or accomplices.
Three days later, Cheng received a telephone call from the commissioner of police in person. I am very sorry indeed to disturb you, Your Excellency. I presume you have read about the murderous attack on Chiwewe Camp. I believe that you may be able to assist our enquiries into this most unfortunate incident. I understand that you were a visitor . . at the camp on that day, and that you left only hours before the attack. That is correct, Commissioner. Would you have any objection to making a statement to assist us? You know that there is no obligation for you to do so. You are fully protected by diplomatic privilege. I will cooperate in any way possible. I particularly admired and liked the warden who was murdered. I will do all I can to help you apprehend the perpetrators of this foul crime.
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