outside the city. I was there as a government representative, of course. Poor Louis was there also, as a merchant. I believe he supplied the wine through one of his contacts. Miss Kittredge and Miss Weston and her companion were guests, as well. Then we all turned up as passengers on the Queen. And now here we all are in Porte Ivoire.”
“Life is filled with strange coincidences, Longongo. Like the American woman’s knowledge of the Mgembe.” Alex got to his feet. “However, I’m tired of hearing about Louis and about the woman. What I need is another beer.”
He stepped into the hotel bar, leaving Longongo sitting alone in the hot afternoon sun.
* * *
THERE WERE TWO cells in the Port Ivoire jail. Only one of them was occupied. Dana sat on the side of a rickety cot, still stunned, unbelieving, almost paralyzed with fury. How dare they! She stood up and paced the eight-by-eight-foot space. The jail, and her abysmal cell, could have been a symbol for all the deterioration of Porte Ivoire.
She knew something about the town from her reading, even more from her trip into the marketplace yesterday. And she’d seen the rest on her incredible journey today from the hotel to the jail under a police escort that consisted of one ridiculous aide to Kantana and the sergeant himself.
She sat back down. What a place to be incarcerated! Once the town had been a major trading post on the Congo, shipping out ivory for the craftsmen of the East and Europe, and animals for the zoos of the world. International laws and changing mores had put an end to that, and as an environmentalist, Dana was glad of it.
But the result was a town sliding into lassitude, a place on the verge of extinction. It lay somnambulant on the bank of the river, its buildings rotting, worn down by tropical heat and humidity, its population gradually drifting away to larger cities downriver, its market the last gasp of enterprise.
The jail to which she’d been so summarily whisked away was testament to the town’s failure. A pitiful concrete block building, it stood on a dusty side street in the most neglected section of the town, Kantana’s office in front, the two cells behind. In her cell were a cot, basin and chamber pot. There was one window, about four feet off the ground, its bars rusted but still strong enough to keep her inside. Through the window, vines and bushes pushed against the jail as if the jungle were hungry to reclaim what had once belonged to it.
Not surprisingly, there was no screen across the window, and insects buzzed freely in and out, making their homes in the crevices of the walls. Soon it would be dark, and the mosquitoes would begin their invasion. It seemed absurd that she was even worried about the mosquitoes, but she could be sure they would come. She could only speculate on what else to look forward to.
Her first hope had been centered on Father Theroux. She’d expected his visit from the moment she landed in the cell, and it had finally come after more than two hours. He brought food and prayers but little in the way of encouragement.
“You know I shall do whatever possible,” he said, standing uneasily by the door.
“Then please intervene with Kantana for me. Your word will carry weight with him.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that is not the case, my child.” The priest fixed his gaze on the scene out the window as if he didn’t want to meet her eyes. “I have known Jean Luc for many years, and he has always been a very decisive, even stubborn man. Not in the least likely to change his mind.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dana snapped. “Sorry.” She didn’t want to offend him so she chose her next words more carefully. “But as an officer of the law, he has to pay attention to evidence and testimony—”
“And I imagine he would profess to have done just that. The blowgun was in your room.”
Dana’s heart plummeted at the finality of Father Theroux’s hard words spoken in such a gentle tone. “I’m innocent, Father!”
“Of course, you are, my dear. But Jean Luc can only act on the evidence at hand.”
“Then he has to look again. And again!”
“Yes, of course.” The priest hesitantly assured her, “I’ll speak to him.”
“Thank you, Father.” She leaned against the cell wall. As if the priest’s mild words would change the sergeant’s mind or convince him to reopen the investigation.
“Jean Luc is an intelligent man,” Theroux said, further discouraging her, “who usually knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, he doesn’t know this time. Unless he’s framing me on purpose,” Dana shot back. She stood up straight and looked at the priest with narrowed eyes, a spark of hope flaming momentarily. “Maybe he’s part of the setup. Maybe he’s framing me to...to protect himself! He could have killed Louis as easily as anyone else!”
“Oh, no.” The priest shook his head in distress. “Jean Luc is totally honorable. I can’t imagine—”
“Well, I can,” Dana interrupted. “The law isn’t above corruption. When I get a lawyer, I’m going to have him investigate Kantana, who is just as likely to be guilty as I.”
Father Theroux’s smile was gentle. “We are all guilty of many things, in many ways,” he said profoundly. “And now, before I leave, let us pray that the Lord will rid us of our unfounded guilt...”
“And punish those on whom the guilt is not unfounded,” Dana added.
The priest opened one eye and looked at her forgivingly as Dana closed her eyes and prayed.
He left her with a crock of cooked chicken, a Bible and some information that stunned her. Louis was to be buried in Porte Ivoire—and Alex Jourdan was paying for the funeral!
* * *
DANA WASN’T HUNGRY but forced herself to eat the chicken and rice. It was all Father Theroux left; certainly no hope. So she ate the food. It was either that or fight the roaches and ants for it later in the evening. She had just finished when she heard a familiar voice echoing in the hall.
“This place is disgustingly dirty! Someone needs to get in here with a mop and scrub brush.”
Dana caught a glimpse of Sergeant Kantana making a quick escape into his office and out of Millicent’s way as she breezed by, her face red from the heat and her gray hair standing out in tufts around her face. To Dana she looked like an angel of mercy. A lot more decisive than the good Father.
“Oh, Millie, thank heavens you’re here. Did you get through to the American Embassy in Brazzaville? I asked Father Theroux to remind you, but who knows where his head was when he left here. So what happened? Did you talk to them, did you—”
“Calm yourself, Dana. Take a deep breath and slow down. Getting overwrought won’t help anything,” Millicent ordered.
“Overwrought? You’re damned right, I’m overwrought. Look around! I’m in jail, Millicent, in case you haven’t noticed. Sergeant Kantana has taken all my money and my passport, and I’m being held for murder. Murder, Millicent! It’s enough to make anyone overwrought. Besides which, Father Theroux offered me no encouragement whatsoever.”
“He can be somewhat ineffectual,” Millicent agreed.
“Ineffectual?
