A HANDFUL O’ PEBBLE
To walk into a room in West Central Africa with your mind engaged
on such matters as occupied the minds of Lambaire and Whitey, and
to come suddenly upon a man whom you thought was picking oakum in a
county gaol, is somewhat disconcerting. Such was the experience of
the two explorers. There was a dramatic pause as Amber rose from the
Commissioner’s lounge chair.
They looked at him, and he looked at them in silence. The mocking smile
which they had come to know so well was missing from his face. He was
wholly serious.
“Hullo,” growled Lambaire. “What is the meaning of this?”
It was not a striking question. For the moment Amber did not speak. The
three were alone in the Commissioner’s bungalow. He motioned them to
seats, and they sat immediately, hypnotized by the unexpectedness of
the experience. “What have you done with Sutton?” asked Amber quietly.
They did not answer him, and he repeated the question.
“He’s dead,” said Whitey. His voice was unnecessarily loud. “He’s
dead--died of fever on the march. It was very sad; he died ... of
fever.”
For the first time in his life Whitey was horribly frightened. There
was a curious note of command in Amber’s tone which was difficult to
define. It seemed as though this convict had suddenly assumed the
function of judge. Neither Whitey nor Lambaire could for the moment
realize that the man who demanded information was one whom they had
seen handcuffed to a chain of convicts on Paddington station.
“When did he die?”
They told him, speaking in chorus, eagerly.
“Who buried him?”
Again the chorus.
“Yet you had two natives with you--and told them nothing. You did
not even ask them to dig a grave.” His voice was grim, the eyes that
watched them were narrowed until they seemed almost shut.
“We buried him,” Lambaire found his voice, “because he was white and we
were white--see?”
“I see.” He walked to the table and took from it a sheet of paper. They
saw it was the rough plan of a country, and guessed that it represented
the scene of their wanderings.
“Point out the place where he was buried.” And Amber laid the map upon
the knees of Whitey.
“Show nothing!” Lambaire recovered a little of his self-possession.
“What do you insinuate. Amber? Who the devil are you that you should go
round askin’ this or that?--an old lag too!”
As his courage revived he began to swear--perhaps the courage waited
upon the expletives.
“... After goin’ through all this!” he spluttered, “an’ hunger an’
thirst an’ fightin’--to be questioned by a crook.”
He felt the fierce grip of Whitey’s hand on his wrist and stopped
himself.
“Say nothin’--more than you can help,” muttered Whitey. Lambaire
swallowed his wrath and obeyed.
“What is this talk about a diamond field?” Amber went on in the same
passionless, level voice. “The Government know of no such field--or
such river. You have told the Commissioner that you have found such a
place. Where is it?”
“Find out, Amber,” shrilled Whitey, “you are clever--find out, like we
had to; we didn’t get our information by asking people,--we went and
looked!”
He groped round on the floor of the half darkened bungalow and found
his hat.
“We’re leavin’ to-morrow,” said Whitey, “an’ the first thing we shall
do when we reach a civilized port is to put them wise to you--eh? It
don’t do to have gaol birds wandering and gallivanting about British
Possessions!” He nodded his head threateningly, and was rewarded by
that smile which was Amber’s chief charm.
“Mr. Whitey!” said Amber softly, “you will not leave to-morrow, the
ship will sail without you.”
“Eh!”
“The ship will sail minus,” repeated Amber. “No Whitey, no Lambaire.”
He shook his head.
“What do you mean?”
For answer Amber tapped the foolscap which he had taken back from the
protesting hand of Whitey. “Somewhere here,” he pointed to a place
marked with a cross, “near a dried river bed, a man died. I want
evidence of his death, and of the manner in which he met it, before I
let you go.”
There was another pause.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Amber?” asked Whitey, and his voice was
unsteady.
“Exactly what I say,” said the other quietly.
“Do you think we murdered him?”
Amber shrugged his shoulders. “We shall know one way or the other
before you leave us,” he said easily. There was something in his tone
which chilled the two men before him.
“I shall know, because I have sent a search party back to the place
where you say you left Mr. Sutton,” he went on. “Your late interpreter
will have no difficulty in finding the spot--he is already on his way.”
Lambaire was as white as death.
“We did nothing to Sutton,” he said doggedly.
Amber inclined his head.
“That we shall know,” he said.
Walking from the bungalow to the hut which the Commissioner had
placed at their disposal, Lambaire suddenly stopped and touched his
companion’s arm.
“Suppose,” he gasped, “suppose----”
Whitey shook off the grip. “Don’t go mad,” he said roughly, “suppose
what?”
“Suppose--some wandering native--found him and speared him. We’d get
the credit for that.”
“My God, I never thought of that!”
It gave them both something to think about in the weary days of
waiting. They learnt that the word of Amber was law. They saw him once
at a distance, but they sought no interview with him. Also they learnt
of the presence, at headquarters, of Cynthia Sutton. For some reason
this worried them, and they wondered how much she knew.
She knew all, if the truth be told. Dry-eyed and pale she had listened
whilst Amber, with all the tenderness of a woman, had broken the news
the Commissioner had sent.
“I would like to hold out some hope,” he said gently, “but that would
be cruel; the story has the ring of truth, and yet there is something
in it which leads me to the belief that there is something behind it
which we do not know.” He did not tell her of his suspicions. These he
had confided to Sanders, and the little man had sent a party back to
make an examination of the place where Sutton was buried.
“White men die very suddenly in the Alebi,” said Sanders. “There is
every chance that the story is true--yet they are not the kind of men
who from any sentimental consideration would take upon themselves the
work of burying a poor chap. That’s the part I can’t believe.”
“What will you do when the search party returns?” asked Amber.
“I have thought it out,” replied Sanders. “I shall ask them for no
report except in the presence of yourself and the men; this inquiry is
to be an impartial one, it is already a little irregular.”
Weeks passed--weeks of intolerable suspense for Whitey and Lambaire,
playing bumble puppy whist in the shade of their hut.
Sanders paid them duty calls. He gave them the courteous attention
which a prison governor would give to distinguished prisoners--that
was how it struck Lambaire. Then, one morning, an orderly came with a
note for them--Their presence was required at “The Residency.” No two
men summoned from the cells below the dock ever walked to judgment with
such apprehension as did these.
They found the Commissioner sitting at a big table, which was the one
notable article of furniture in his office.
Three travel-stained natives in the worn blue uniform of police stood
by the desk. Sanders was speaking rapidly in a native dialect which
was incomprehensible to any other of the white people in the room.
Amber, with Cynthia Sutton, sat on chairs to the right of the
Commissioner’s desk, and two vacant chairs had been placed on the left
of the desk.
It was curiously suggestive of a magistrate’s court, where the
positions of plaintiff and defendant are well defined.
Lambaire shot a sidelong glance at the girl in her cool white frock and
her snowy helmet, and made a little nervous grimace.
They took their seats, Lambaire walking heavily to his.
Sanders finished talking, and with a jerk of his hand motioned his men
to the centre of the room.
“I was getting their story in consecutive order,” he said. “I will ask
them questions and will translate their answers, if it is agreeable to
you?”
Whitey coughed to clear his throat, tried to frame an agreement,
failed, and expressed his approval with a nod.
“Did you find the place of the four trees?” asked Sanders of the native.
“Lord, we found the place,” said the man.
Sentence by sentence as he spoke, Sanders translated the narrative.
“For many days we followed the path the white men came; resting only
one day, which was a certain feast-day, we being of the Sufi Sect and
worshippers of one god,” said the policeman. “We found sleeping places
by the ashes of fires that the white men had kindled; also cartridges
and other things which white men throw away.”
“How many days’ journey did the white men come?” asked Sanders.
“Ten days,” said the native, “for there were ten night fires where
there was much ash, and ten day fires, and where there was only so
much ash as would show the boiling of a pot. Also at these places no
beds had been prepared. Two white men travelled together for ten days,
before then were three white men.”
“How do you know this?” said Sanders, in the vernacular.
“Lord, that were an easy matter to tell, for we found the place where
they had slept. Also we found the spot where the third white man had
been left behind.”
Lambaire’s lips were dry; his mouth was like a limekiln as, sentence by
sentence, the native’s statement was translated.
“Did you find the white master who was left behind?” asked Sanders.
“Lord, we did not find him.”
Lambaire made a little choking noise in his throat. Whitey stared,
saying nothing. He half rose, then sat down again.
“Was there a grave?”
The native shook his head.
“We saw an open grave, but there was no man in it.” Lambaire shot a
swift startled glance at the man by his side.
“There was no sign of the white master?”
“None, lord, he had vanished, and only this left behind.” He dived into
the inside of his stained blue tunic and withdrew what was apparently a
handkerchief. It was grimy, and one corner was tied into several knots.
Cynthia rose and took it in her hands.
“Yes, this was my brother’s,” she said in a low voice. She handed it to
Sanders.
“There is something tied up here,” he said, and proceeded to unknot the
handkerchief. Three knots in all he untied, and with each untying, save
the last, a little grey pebble fell to the table. In the last knot were
four little pebbles no larger than the tip of a boy’s finger. Sanders
gathered them into the palm of his hand and looked at them curiously.
“Do you know what these signify?” he asked Whitey, and he shook his
head.
Sanders addressed the native in Arabic.
“Abiboo,” he said, “you know the ways and customs of Alebi folk--what
do these things mean?”
But Abiboo was at a loss.
“Lord,” he said, “if they were of camwood it would mean a marriage,
if they were of gum it would mean a journey--but these things signify
nothing, according to my knowledge.”
Sanders turned the pebbles over with his finger.
“I am afraid this beats me,” he began, when Amber stepped forward.
“Let me see them,” he said, and they were emptied into his palm.
He walked with them to the window, and examined them carefully. He took
a knife from his pocket and scraped away at the dull surface.
He was intensely occupied, so much so that he did not seem
to realize that he was arresting the inquiry. They waited
patiently--three--five--ten--minutes. Then he came back from the
window, jingling the pebbles in his hand.
“These we may keep, I suppose?” he said; “you have no objection?”
Lambaire shook his head.
He was calmer now, though he had no reason to be, as Whitey, licking
his dry lips, realized. The next words of the Commissioner supplied a
reason.
“You say that you buried Mr. Sutton at a certain spot,” he said
gravely. “My men find no trace of a grave--save an open grave--how do
you explain this?”
It took little to induce panic in Lambaire--Whitey gave him no chance
of betraying his agitation.
“I give no explanation,” he piped in his thin voice; “we buried him,
that’s all we know--your men must have mistaken the spot. You can’t
detain us any longer; it’s against the law--what do you accuse us of,
hey? We’ve told you everything there is to tell; and you’ve got to make
up your mind what you are going to do.”
He said all this in one breath and stopped for lack of it, and what he
said was true--no one knew the fact better than Amber.
“Let me ask you one question,” he said. “Did you discover the
diamond mine, of which we have heard so little, before or after
the--disappearance of Mr. Sutton?”
Lambaire, who was directly addressed, made no reply. It was safer to
rely upon Whitey when matters of chronology were concerned.
“Before,” said Whitey, after the slightest pause.
“Long before?”
“Yes--a week or so.”
Amber tapped the table restlessly--like a man deep in thought.
“Did Mr. Sutton know of the discovery?”
“No,” said Whitey--and could have bitten his tongue at the slip; “when
the discovery was made he was down with fever,” he added.
“And he knew nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Amber opened his hand and allowed the four pebbles to slip on to the
table.
“And yet he had these,” he said.
“What are they to do with it?” asked Whitey.
Amber smiled.
“Nothing,” he said, “except that these are diamonds.”