UNDER SUSPICION
Irritated almost beyond control by Solomon's exasperating method of
playing his hand in the dark, Hammer passed a very bad night.
More than once he was on the point of sending a boy to Melindi for
the district commissioner and of putting the whole case into the
hands of the authorities, and only his promise to Harcourt restrained
him, for he had come to look upon that promise as a personal pledge,
to be carried out by himself alone.
Why had Solomon gone off without leaving him any word, and why had he
taken Sara Helmuth with him? Perhaps the latter query worried the
American more than the former.
He overlooked the facts that Sara Helmuth was quite competent so far
as taking care of herself was concerned; that she had as much or more
interest in the entire affair than he had, and that she was not the
kind of person to sit idly by while Solomon worked in her behalf.
Evidently Potbelly's tidings had in some way drawn them off the
original plan, though Hammer could not see how.
The Hazrami, who was masquerading as a Kiswahili, must have brought
back important news to bestir Solomon to such rapid action, for at
dawn no move had been contemplated till Hammer's return. Besides,
Solomon had no taste for hurry, as the American knew.
The two Afghans and the four Arabs had received the news of Solomon's
absence with grave acquiescence, departing to the rooms assigned them
by the house servants, who were all Kiswahili. Akhbar Khan had
carried a small roll of sheepskin, the only baggage of the two, and
this he had taken with him.
But when Hammer descended to breakfast both Akhbar Khan and Yar
Hussein had vanished bodily, sheepskin and all. The four Arabs could
tell nothing of them, and, although Hammer expended all his store of
Arabic upon the house servants, he elicited nothing but the
surprising information that the two visitors must have been djinns,
since they had flown away in the night, even as they had come.
So the American cursed them all impartially in the name of Allah and
bade them leave him alone, which they did willingly. There being
nothing better to do, he gave himself up to waiting; but an hour
later he was pleasurably surprised by the arrival of no less a person
than Potbelly himself.
Now, however, he came in his own guise. No longer a Kiswahili, he
had doffed his pseudo-mission clothes and came in all the stately
pride of a Hazrami, an Arab of the Arabs, masterless, and bowing to
no man.
Yet, in spite of his white burnoose and green turban of the
pilgrimage, he was weary and in much need of repair, having plainly
come through the bush. He insisted on speaking French, also, to the
further annoyance of Hammer, though the American could understand him
well enough.
"It's about time you came, Potbelly," grunted Hammer ungraciously.
"What's your news? Where's Solomon?"
For answer the Arab settled himself on a rug, clapped his hands, and
demanded coffee from the boy who came, and then saw to it that his
proper self made a proper impression on Hammer.
"I am no longer Potbelly, _m'sieu'_, but the Hajj Omar ibn Kasim el
Hamumi----"
"I don't care a whoop who you are!" exclaimed Hammer angrily. "Give
me your message or get out of here!"
A wounded look from Omar ibn Kasim was followed promptly by his news,
as he met the eye of Hammer, and saw fury smouldering there.
But, mindful of the words of John Solomon, the American forced
himself to restraint and let Omar tell the tale in his own fashion,
which consisted largely in dwelling on every little circumstance to
the full, and lauding his own efforts with great self-satisfaction.
The gist of the tale, as Hammer finally extracted it, was that Omar
had held Dr. Krausz and his men helpless until Hammer and Sara
Helmuth had obtained a good start on any possible pursuit.
Then, knowing that he had no retreat by sea, he had shouted to Miss
Helmuth's mission-boys to join him in the jungle, and had plunged
into the midst of it, chancing upon the real ruins of the fort.
At this point his story was full of fanciful interpolations, as
Hammer termed them, concerning monkeys who threw skulls at him, and
pits full of snakes. After weird and wholly impossible adventures he
had met Solomon's party of Arabs, who were later joined by Sara
Helmuth's mission-boys.
Since the Arabs, whom he wrathfully described as "men without shame",
were determined to carry out Solomon's orders, and laughed at his
stories of the ruins, he had come on to Melindi with the mission-boys.
Midway, however, he had come down with fever, which explained his
delay. The mission-boys had cared for him, and Hammer shrewdly
judged that he had made the most of his illness, for at present he
displayed no great signs of emaciation.
On the day before, as he was coming into town, he had seen a party of
nine men leaving; of these stalwart Masai _askaris_, bearing the
eagle of the German Consulate on the collars of their tunics. Here
the American interrupted wrathfully:
"What manner of lie is this, Omar ibn Kasim? How should these men
get here from Mombasa?"
"Did not the _Juba_ arrive the day before yesterday, and does it not
arrive again to-morrow, Yaum el Ahad?"
"Yes, to-morrow is Sunday," retorted the American, "but that doesn't
explain how Jenson could have fetched those _askaris_ from Mombasa."
"A week has passed, _effendi_," and the other struck into Arabic.
"Am I a liar, then? _Al Nar wa la al Ar_! May fire seize on me, but
not shame! If I lie, _effendi_, may I be childless, may my----"
"Oh, cut it out and go on!" groaned Hammer wearily, recognizing his
want of tact in dealing with the man. "You are more truthful than
the Koran, Omar Ibn Kasim, so finish the story and I will doubt no
more."
Mollified, the Arab told how he had brought the news to Solomon, and
how that individual had at once set out after Jenson, taking him for
guide.
Miss Helmuth had gone with them, with enough boys from the plantation
to make a respectable safari. As they had failed to come up with
Jenson by nightfall, in the morning Solomon had despatched the Arab
to bring up Hammer.
"Then it's time we started," growled the latter, angry at Solomon,
Omar, himself, and everyone else. "If we had only got the
authorities after the fellow," he thought, "it would have been all
over by this time. Confound Solomon! It's too late now."
He questioned Omar about the two Afghans, but the latter knew nothing
of them. Neither did he have any inclination to hurry forth into the
jungle again, and said so plainly as he sipped his coffee.
Hammer, exasperated by the coolness and almost contempt of the man,
could restrain himself no longer. Starting from his seat, he grasped
the arm of Omar with a wrench that sent the man to his back on the
rug.
"Now," and he glared at the angry Arab with his grey eyes hard and
cold, "I've had enough of your insolence, my friend, and I don't give
a hang whether you're a Hajj or a Hazrami or Mohammed himself.
You're going to lead me to John Solomon, and do it on the
jump--understand?"
This was exactly the action required. Omar looked up at him for a
moment, then his dark face cleared, and he stated that he understood
and would do exactly as the _effendi_ ordered, though he was dying
for lack of food.
"That's all right," and Hammer released him. "Do all the dying you
want to but not until you have led me to Solomon _Effendi_. Now, get
out and see that you have some boys ready to start within an hour,
else I go alone and spread the story of your shame through all the
coast. Jump!"
Omar jumped, and, with the four Arab soldiers to help him, he
speedily raised a force of twenty boys from the plantation quarters.
As Hammer knew where Solomon's stores of chop-boxes and supplies were
located, he broke into the storehouse without scruple and left Omar
getting the loads ready.
Though he searched every room in the main house, he could find no
arms save the weapons adorning the walls, and these were handsome but
useless to him.
Evidently Solomon had small use for weapons, so he was forced to bide
content with his own two revolvers. Meanwhile, the problem of Jenson
and the consulate _askaris_ was worrying him.
There was no doubt that the secretary had swum ashore, either
frightened or wounded by Sara Helmuth's bullet, the night he had
stabbed Mohammed Bari in the launch. He had met Harcourt the next
morning, probably after hiding on the wharf all night; and where had
he been during the intervening week?
Remembering the _askaris_, Hammer whistled softly and consulted Omar
ibn Kasim, who replied to his questions with the information that the
German Consul in Mombasa did not have _askaris_, requiring no
protection; but that all the Consulates in Zanzibar did, and,
further, that if a man was fool enough to be in a hurry he could get
to Zanzibar from Mombasa and back in a couple of days, more or less.
This, then, explained the actions of Jenson fairly well. Immediately
after his stabbing Harcourt he must have gone aboard the _Juba_ to
Mombasa--but would he have the influence and authority to command
_askaris_? Also, he was taking them to Fort St. Thomas, a thing he
would never dare do on his own initiative. This compelled a
readjustment.
Evidently, then, Jenson had gone to Dr. Krausz, either overland or by
launch. This could be verified by ascertaining in Melindi if he had
hired a launch at the time in question; yet he must have done so to
account for his other movements.
Armed with letters from Krausz, the American reflected, he had caught
the _Juba_ on her next trip, connected at Mombasa for Zanzibar, and
hurried back with the _askaris_. Krausz evidently wanted men who
could shoot, as these Masai could.
Hammer strongly doubted whether it was legal or not to bring the
Consulate guards from Zanzibar up here into British East Africa.
Certainly, the German Consul would take no such risk, for the thing
would be sure to demand investigation if illegal, as Hammer thought
it was.
How, then, had Jenson secured the men? Probably by
misrepresentations, or else by actual lies; and if this was the case
Hammer felt that he had Krausz cornered at last.
Omar had met the party leaving Melindi, however, and if Jenson acted
thus openly the presence of the _askaris_ must be unquestioned.
The best thing to do was to see the district commissioner about it,
thought the American, and with this thought he issued from the house
and sought out Omar.
The latter was ready to start, as was his safari, and from somewhere
the Arab had dug up an ancient Snider rifle and bandolier, which
Hammer eyed with some disfavour. As he gave the order to march,
however, a Kiswahili boy ran up with word that Bwana Somebody was
coming, whereat all save Omar seemed to be affected with sudden
fright.
The American got them into shape with much expenditure of Arabic, and
as he did so became aware of a little party coming down the
track--for the plantation of Solomon, being away from those of the
East African Corporation, did not have the benefit of any road.
The party, as he saw at a glance, consisted of a very trim and spruce
officer of police, a sergeant, and four men, and that they were
coming here he had no doubt. So, bidding the natives wait, he
advanced to meet them.
"Good afternoon," the officer responded curtly to his greeting. "Is
there a Mr. Hammer anywhere about?"
"I am Mr. Hammer," replied the American, surprised. "Sure you want
me!"
"Well, rather!" snapped out the other, curtly. "Sergeant, arrest
this man."
Before the amazed Hammer knew what was happening there was a
policeman on each side of him, and the officer's eye had lighted on
Omar.
"Here, you! Have you a permit to carry that _bunduki_?"
The officer was somewhat taken aback when Omar, grinning, held out a
folded paper and replied in English:
"Yes, sar. Licensed to carry one gun, sar."
"Humph!" By the time the officer had glanced over the permit and
returned it with a bad grace, Hammer had recovered his power of
speech. He knew that something was radically wrong, but that if he
resisted it would be more wrong still, so he restrained his anger and
spoke with what seemed to him remarkable coolness.
"I'd like to know what this means, lieutenant! How dare you arrest
me, and on what charge? What----"
"Whatever you say will be used against you," replied the officer.
"You are under arrest for murder, sir, and I warn you not to resist.
I just got here in time evidently; you slipped out of Mombasa pretty
neatly, 'pon my word!"
"Slipped your grandmother!" retorted Hammer with some heat. "I'm not
in the habit of slipping out of anywhere, you impertinent young
puppy! I want to know----"
"See here, Hammer," and the officer, for all his youth, showed
determination, "I'd advise you to keep your mouth closed unless you
want it closed for you. If you can't help talking, wait till you get
closeted with the district commissioner. I'll warrant you'll get a
mouthful from him, my man, and no mistake, but in the meantime I'll
thank you not to discuss this affair with me. I've no bally use for
a man of your stamp, and the less you say the better for you. All
ready, sergeant?"
The sergeant was, and so was Hammer. Furious but helpless, he
clearly perceived that there was no use resisting, and that argument
with this business-like young officer was worse than futile.
He was but obeying orders, after all, and the only thing to do was to
have it out with the district commissioner.
So, angry at the mere senselessness of the arrest, the American fell
in between the two men and followed the sergeant, his face pale and
hard.
As he went he saw that Omar ibn Kasim, after a quick order in Arabic
which he did not catch, was starting after him. Struck by a sudden
thought, Hammer held up the hand on which glittered Solomon's ring.
Omar stopped, waved a hand, and departed by another path in all
haste, while Hammer proceeded with more calmness. He was suddenly
aware that he had great confidence in John Solomon, and, whatever
this situation was into which he had stumbled, the pudgy little man
would find some loophole.
Then he remembered the Cockney whom he had met on the Mombasa wharf,
and realized that the thing must be serious indeed if the Mombasa
police were after him. They had notified Melindi by wire of course;
but of what had they notified? What was the cause of the whole
business?
Hammer racked his brains vainly. He might have been arrested for the
death of Baumgardner, although no hue and cry had been raised over
finding any such body along the beach. Besides, the testimony of
Sara Helmuth would have cleared him of that, and Solomon had
accounted to the authorities for the death of Mohammed Bari in some
manner or other.
It must be some trumped-up charge brought against him by Krausz, he
considered. The scientist had no knowledge or fear of John Solomon's
activities, and he was probably trying to get Hammer out of his way,
believing him the only champion of Sara Helmuth.
The reason was plain, for with the persistent American safely
disposed of, pending trial, the doctor and his aides could get hold
of the treasure and get it stowed away where Sara Helmuth would never
find it.
At this reasoning, which proved correct enough in its way, Hammer
chuckled and began to feel relieved. Krausz would have a hard job
finding any treasure in the place he was looking for it, that was
sure.
As for himself, he would be freed just as soon as he had had a talk
with this asinine district commissioner, or as soon as Solomon came
to the rescue. And with that Jenson would be tracked down in short
order.
"By Godfrey, he's going to swing for that murder!" Hammer swore
savagely to himself, almost forgetting his own plight. The party had
swung into the road by this time, passing old and new cotton
plantations on every hand, for Melindi threatened to become a big
cotton-producing centre in no long while.
On whatever evidence Krausz had trumped up this charge against him,
thought the American, he was reasonably sure of getting off in a day
or two, and it would be more than a day or two ere Jenson got out of
the country. He was not greatly concerned whether he brought the man
to justice or killed him himself, and rather preferred the latter,
for feud was strong in his heart.
"I suppose I'll have a preliminary hearing?" he asked the officer.
The latter nodded curtly. "I suppose so. You must be formally
identified."
Hammer asked no more questions. Ahead of him were the two small
corrugated iron bungalows, with the flag fluttering gaily before them
and the police huts at one side, while the natives stared in high
glee at a white man being brought to justice.
The American grinned cheerfully as he caught sight of the planter who
had assisted him on his first arrival at Melindi standing in the
doorway of a store; but to his surprise his grin was not answered in
kind. Instead, the planter darted him a black look, and Hammer could
almost hear the curse that left his lips as he turned on his heel and
vanished.
He had small time to wonder at this, however, for he was led into one
of the iron bungalows which mark the limitations of British rule in
all torrid lands, and found himself in the presence of the district
commissioner. The latter was a red-faced young man who sat at a
table writing, with a whisky bottle on the shelf behind him; two more
of the police were sitting on a bench inside the door, and these rose
in salute as the squad marched Hammer inside.
"This is our man, Mr. Smith!" exclaimed the police lieutenant,
saluting.
Commissioner Smith looked at Hammer from a pair of narrow set eyes
and pulled a paper in front of him with a weary air.
"You are Cyrus Hammer, first mate of the yacht _Daphne_?"
"You bet I am!" shot back Hammer, irritated by the man's air. "And I
demand to know why I am under arrest?"
"For murder," came the laconic answer, accompanied by a stare of mild
surprise. "Don't come that, my man! Can't get away with it, really,
don't you know!"
"Confound it, who have I murdered, you blithering ass?"
"Why--er--oh, yes--Frederick R. C. Harcourt, your owner and captain.
And no more insolence, you cur, or I'll put you in irons, you know."